


L'Appel du Vide

by Mackem



Series: Can You Imagine When This Race Is Won? [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Denial, Divorce, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Losers Club (IT) Group Chat, M/M, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo, Nightmares, Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 92,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21734290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: “Okay, all right, well, I think we’re done here,” Eddie sighs, but when he glances into the rear-view mirror, he sees a smile on his face, and his cheeks are flushed. He frowns as something occurs to him. “Wait, are we? What did you call me for?”“You called me, Eduardo.”“I called youback, idiot!”“Yeah, yeah. I dunno, man,” Richie says easily enough. Eddie can hear his fingers rattling against some hard surface as he talks, restlessly drumming as he speaks. “I saw Stan, and suddenly I realised that I fucking missed him, and then hot on the tails of that I was like…man, do I miss Eddie, jeez! So I called. That’s all. No biggie.”“Oh,” Eddie breathes, and does not try to stop the pleased smile blooms with Richie’s words. “I, uh. I miss you too, jackass. God only knows why, but I do.”Richie groans happily. “Man, that’s the stuff! Nobody insults me like you do, Eds.”“Nobody deserves it like you,” Eddie grins, and Richie bursts into laughter. Eddie’s soul soars at the sound of it.
Relationships: Background Bev/Ben - Relationship, Background Bill/Audra - Relationship, Background Bill/Mike hints, Background Stan/Patty - Relationship, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Can You Imagine When This Race Is Won? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597312
Comments: 318
Kudos: 849





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super cool that Eddie and Stanley definitely lived through the clown movie to end up in a group chat with the rest of the Losers, right?
> 
> So this definitely got out of hand.
> 
> I tried my hand at NaNoWriMo, and many thousands of words later, here we are! I plan to post Mondays and Thursdays, on UK evenings, and this is all written and ready to go.
> 
> It's part group chat, because I am determined that these forty-year-old idiots all get to have happy lives after giving so much of themselves. It's also part prose, because I cannot help myself. 
> 
> Slow burn. Slow, slow burn.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Richie:** _guys i know we grew up in maine and i should be able to handle this but i’m in portland right now and i’m freezing my balls off holy shit_

Eddie sits at his desk and eats his salad as he stares absently at the Losers Club group chat, his thumb hovering over the keypad. 

He checks the chat often, and while it’s rare that he’ll initiate a conversation or offer anything up from his own life, he likes responding to whatever the others are up to. 

It makes him feel closer to them.

Nothing compares to the seven of them being together in the same room, but if this is the closest he can get to that, he’ll take it.

Bev responds before he gets the chance, sending an image to the chat: Jack Torrance frozen in ice at the end of _The Shining_ , alongside a laughing emoji.

Ben is next, hot on Bev’s heels as usual, and Eddie cannot help but smile to himself. It has been months since the two of them got together, reaching out to each other and saving each other’s lives with their love, and as far as Eddie can tell, they have barely been apart since.

The two of them are a bright spot in his life. They moved in together almost immediately after they left Derry hand-in-hand, and chose a place not too far away from Eddie in New York. 

The three of them have dinner together as often as they can. They invite Myra to join their dinner dates more than once, claiming that they’d love to meet her, but Eddie refuses politely. She’s busy, he tells them. She goes to so many activities on an evening. You can meet her another time.

He always turns up alone, and they both smile and hug him, and neither press the issue. He loves them so much.

Though he’d never tell them, Eddie privately thinks they’re kind of sweet, even if they do provide a stark comparison to the state of his own marriage. It has never bothered him; he can smile fondly at their ridiculous co-dependent puppy-love, while also quietly volunteering himself for every upcoming out of state work trip.

He always ends up telling Myra he’s the only person they can spare, and breathing a sigh of relief whenever he leaves the city.

Whatever. It’s just a rough spot. Everyone has them. They’ll get through it.

Somehow.

**Ben:** _I’m sorry! That sucks Richie! Didn’t you bring a coat?_

**Richie:** _of course i brought a coat my handscome man_

**Richie:** _it’s just a los angeles coat_

**Richie:** _suitable protection against somebody exhaling within five feet of me and nothing worse_

**Bev:** _if I could handle Portland when I was 13, you can handle it when you’re 40, Trashmouth!_

**Bill:** _This is on you Richie. Hollywood made you soft. We used to run around outside in just our shirts and never even feel the cold._

**Mike:** _I second that. Bill’s right. Why didn’t you bring a better coat? Did you manage to forget your common sense along with your childhood?_

It's a very tempting set up. Eddie sees his chance and takes it, a sharp grin spreading across his face as he types quickly.

**Eddie:** _Mike he can’t lose what he never had._

Not his best jab, for sure, but it’ll do for some chucks on a Thursday lunchtime, as a phantom Richie in his head helpfully puts it. 

He finds that happening more and more, nowadays.

It always strikes him as strange, when he lets himself think about it; that he went for over twenty years not really being aware that he was missing people who could be so important to him, but now he has six friends to turn to whenever he wants. 

Even if all he really lets himself turn to them for is amusement. 

They don’t need to hear about the list of complaints that sums up his life. Hell, Eddie has no interest in hearing it, and it’s _his_ life. 

But he’s so happy to hear about theirs, and to praise or mock them when required, and he can’t help but clutch them close to him.

He finds they’re always with him, nowadays, lurking at the back of his mind as he drifts through his life. 

Ben points out the beauty in things Eddie has seen on a daily basis, but has never before appreciated. Bill comes to mind whenever Eddie is dealing with something stressful, reminding him to stay calm and remain in control of the situation the way Bill always had.

Bev pops up whenever Myra cajoles him into going shopping with her, pointing him in the direction of clothing more daring than he’s ever indulged in before; she gently encourages him to change and grow and experiment, even as Myra frets about what kind of image he’ll present to his clients if he strays from reliable white shirts. 

Stan is can be relied upon to point out the ridiculousness built into his life, arching an eyebrow and smirking in agreement whenever Eddie is mentally calling anybody an idiot.

Mike usually pops into his head whenever he’s trying to kill time after work, encouraging him to visit museums or other sites of interest; reminding him to appreciate the place he’s in, and to learn as much about it as he can. It doesn’t compare, he knows – Eddie is hardly trapped in New York the way Mike was in Derry – but Mike has always been kind of awe-inspiring in how knowledgeable he is, and there are worse ways to cool his heels before he gives in and heads home.

And Richie…

Truth be told, Richie is never far from his mind. 

Eddie remembers, now that his childhood is once more firmly entrenched in his memory, that he and Richie had been all but inseparable when they were kids. All the Losers were, of course; it was rare to find them apart from each other, but rarer still that Eddie and Richie would be without each other. 

Neither of them could ever have guessed that they would end up literally on opposite sides of the country from each other, but Eddie supposes he has a mix of his mother moving him away, Richie seeking fame and fortune in Hollywood, and that good ol’ Derry memory-wiping magic to thank for that.

Still, even without Richie around to follow at his heels, Eddie finds him sneaking into his thoughts on a daily basis. 

When he’s trapped in a meeting and somebody is rambling, without pause and seemingly without purpose, Richie is at the back of his mind, mercilessly mocking them and keeping Eddie awake. When he’s stuck in traffic in the car, turning to the radio for entertainment, it’s Richie he hears warbling along with it, pulling out his shitty shock-jock DJ Voice, the one that had always had Eddie in stitches before too long.

When he’s staring uncertainly at the scar on his cheek, Myra’s pleading about it being ugly and frightening and in need of fixing echoing in his brain, it is Richie he hears, reminding him that he is brave, and tough, and… and…

_Cute cute cute!_

Eddie swallows another mouthful of his salad hurriedly, and forces his brain back to the present. He chuckles to himself as Richie starts typing, stops, then starts up again.

**Richie:** _haha! got me good there spaghetti!_

**Stan:** _Wait. Are you really in Portland right now?_

**Richie:** _sure i am stan-the-man_

**Richie:** _i got a gig here tomorrow night_

Eddie’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Richie has mentioned that he’s started writing his own material, and Eddie is able to read between the lines enough to guess that it is proving to be a slow and painful process, fraught with more anxiety than Richie is willing to openly admit.

But he hadn’t said anything about performing again. 

Eddie is about to start typing again, hoping to pry some information from Richie, when Stan’s next message comes through.

**Stan:** _Whereabouts exactly? Because I’m actually in Portland right now too._

**Richie:** _?!?!?!??!?!!!!!_

**Richie:** _stan!!!!!!!_

**Richie:** _are you for real buddy??_

**Stan:** _Yes. My company has a conference here tomorrow. I flew in this morning._

**Richie:** _!!!!! where are you right now???? i’ll come find you!!_

**Stan:** _Let’s move this to our private texts. Nobody wants us to bore them with this._

**Bev:** _stan!! yes we do!!_

**Mike:** _Are you kidding? This is insane! What are the chances of this happening?_

**Ben:** _I know, this is amazing! Guys!! :O Are you meeting up right now?_

**Mike:** _They may not even be close to each other. Portland’s pretty big._

**Bev:** _but it’s us right? beating the odds is our thing. I bet they’re close. god I’m on the edge of my seat!_

**Ben:** _She really is!_

Long minutes go past with no response beyond this. Richie and Stan, despite everybody’s eager responses, have apparently made good on Stan’s suggestion and switched their talk to the private texts. Eddie sighs to himself, just as itchy to know how this turns out as the rest of the group.

Eventually, as time stretches on with no response from either man, Eddie finishes his lunch and reluctantly turns back to his computer. But he can’t stop himself from glancing impatiently at his phone as he works.

After a little while, a new message from Richie pops up. Eddie quickly scrambles to open it, and sees a video waiting in the chat. Eddie presses play, and waits impatiently for it to load.

Richie pops into view when it plays. His phone is turned on himself, his face filling the frame as he grins. Excitement shines from him, despite the dark circles around his eyes, not quite hidden behind his chunky glasses. 

“Get a fucking load of this,” Richie breathes, and takes off striding down a corridor. Doors flash past him as he moves, his head glancing at the numbers before he skids to a stop. He bounces in place, and announces, “Theoretically, behind door number, uh, 305, we have...”

He turns his camera to face the door, and raps shave-and-a-haircut at it. There is a breathless pause, before the person behind the door answers with a quick two-bits, and it swings open to reveal...

“Stan the man!” Richie shouts, and his phone focuses shakily on Stan’s familiar face. Eddie sees him clearly for just a second, long enough to take in the delighted grin spreading across his face, before Richie abandons filming altogether. 

The image blurs as he moves closer and throws his arms around Stan, and Eddie hears both men laughing and the start of Richie saying, “God, I’ve missed -” as the video cuts out.

Thousands of miles away, his phone clutched in his hand and his heart thudding, Eddie laughs alongside them.

A picture arrives a second later; Stan looking flatly into the camera, his mouth a thin line with just a hint of a pleased curl at the corner for those who know to look for it, while both of Richie’s arms squeeze him in a crushing hug as he tosses his head back in laughter.

**Ben:** _Amazing!! :D_

**Bev:** _awwww guys!!!! <3_

**Bill:** _No seriously, what the hell! Is this for real? You’re not joking? Don’t tell me you’re even staying in the same hotel?_

**Richie:** _we sure are big billy style!!_

**Mike:** _Holy shit. This is incredible. I know this isn’t the most impressive way we’ve all beaten the odds, but this is still something!_

**Bill:** _And you guys REALLY had no idea you’d both be in Portland today?_

**Richie:** _are you fucking kidding me? i have way more important things to text stan about than his boring ass counting job. am i gonna be like hey stan count any good numbers today?? you maybe count 69 for a while and get some really sexy vibes from it?_

**Stan:** _The last thing he texted me about was whether or not I thought take-out would be fine to reheat after five days._

**Bill:** _Fuck, Richie, you’re disgusting._

**Mike:** _Named and shamed. Stanley, you always were ruthless. I love it!_

**Bev:** _he deserves it!_

**Richie:** _ouch. he fucking looked me dead in the eyes and said checkmate when he finished typing that_

**Ben:** _Wow. I hate to pile on but Eddie’s going to eviscerate you for even asking that Richie :(_

Ben is not wrong, but Eddie can’t seem to find the desire to explode at Richie inside him right now. He can’t stop looking at the picture of Richie and Stan, smiling softly at Richie’s delighted laughter, but fixating on the dark rings beneath his eyes.

Richie is a social creature at heart, but Eddie suspects from their semi-frequent messages and phone calls that he’s not exactly overloaded with company in Los Angeles. He has acquaintances beyond their little circle, he knows, but Eddie has never got the impression that Richie is close to anybody outside of their group. 

Of the Losers, Bill lives closest to him. He and his wife live in L.A., apparently not too far away from Richie, and Eddie knows the two of them spend a lot of time together when he’s in town, but Bill has been away on some film shoot in Canada for a while now. 

Ben and Bev’s occasional nomadic boat life notwithstanding, the rest of the Losers are all parked firmly on the east coast, and as stupid as it may be, Eddie can’t help but worry about Richie being alone on the other side of the country.

It’s ridiculous, and he knows it. Richie has been in L.A. for years now, and until a few months ago Eddie had no idea who he was. Richie has coped just fine on his own until now.

Still. In every selfie he sends there is a tiredness to his eyes, and a tightness to his shoulders, that leaves Eddie worrying about him. Richie should have somebody there to ask about it.

Hell, Richie should have somebody there to change it.

Eddie’s heart clenches again, longing and guilt swirling in a thick morass in his stomach as he glances instinctively down at his wedding ring without really being aware of why.

Then he closes the picture and types a simple, “Yes I am.” into the chat. 

It does the trick; even Stan sends a laughing emoji. 

After a moment, another picture comes through; it shows Richie, staring warily into the camera from behind a chuckling Stan, most of his face hidden as he hides behind Stan’s shoulder.

**Richie:** _you’ll never take me alive copper!!! you’ll have to catch me first and you’ll never get past stan-the-hit-man!!!_

**Stan:** _I’m not sure why he thinks I’m on his side. Eddie, he is disgusting, and he is all yours._

**Richie:** _oh shit truer words were never spoken haha_

Eddie blinks in astonishment as Richie’s response arrives. 

Even after so long apart he can hear Richie’s response in his head, though his voice is caught somewhere between that of his teenage self and the adult he has become. 

He can picture it so clearly: Richie flinging a hand into the air as he plays the part of the lovesick fool, the other clutching dramatically over his heart before reaching out to paw at Eddie’s face, a ridiculous Voice spilling from him and a grin shining behind it all as Eddie scowls in return, looking away and hideously aware of both the irritable flush to his cheeks, and the smile threatening to bloom on his face.

Richie was never one to ignore a chance to make fun of somebody, but Eddie had always been his favourite target. 

Eddie assumes that it was because he was so reliably likely to get wound up about it all. Richie had a way of pushing buttons that Eddie didn’t even realise he had. It had always been infuriating. 

And, he admits in the safety of his own head, exhilarating.

Eddie had never been somebody who wanted attention from the world at large, but from Richie, it was a different matter. 

Being the object of Richie’s attention was like being bathed in sunlight. Too much and it burned, sure, but it was always worth it for the warmth he felt while it was happening.

Seeing Richie’s attention turn to anybody else had always been a hollow victory. It meant fewer mom jokes and insults in the long term, sure, and there was certainly a finite amount of those he could take in a given time, but…

…but before too long Eddie always found himself seized with a restless need to march over to Richie and claim his attention, insulting and poking and demanding until Richie’s mischievous gaze swung onto him, and the whole mess began again. 

And some buried part of Eddie – some needy, jealous idiot who whispered that all the insults and mockery were worth it because it was _Richie_ – opened like a flower and drank him in.

Now, faced with a message that seems simultaneously so astonishingly earnest and so ridiculous at the same time, Eddie is startled into silence. 

He is certain that it has only caught him by surprise because it was written down. 

Were Richie here to say it in person, Eddie is sure he would not be struggling to respond; he would throw an elbow into his gut and roll his eyes, and snap that Richie is a mess and that Stan is absolutely welcome to be the person he comes to for such disgusting matters. Let Stan have his fair share of Richie Tozier-induced aneurysms. Eddie is sure another one will be along in a minute.

But Richie isn’t here. He’s thousands of miles away, beaming in delight at the sight of Stan, and Eddie is stuck with his thumbs hovering restlessly over the keypad of his phone as the seconds drag on into a long, uncertain moment. 

A weird relief courses through him when Beverly responds in his absence, and the moment passes.

**Bev:** _stop texting you two! go enjoy yourselves together!_

**Eddie:** _Seconded. I’ll get you another time Richie._

**Richie:** _any time you want me Eds my man you just have to ask_

Eddie has absolutely no idea what to say to that, so he says nothing. 

He does pointedly forward Richie an article about food safety in their private texts, to which he immediately responds with a vomiting emoji.

He tries to turn his mind back to work after that, and is mostly successful in focusing on it. So what if his thoughts occasionally stray to wondering what Richie’s texts actually mean, or just how thrilled he would be if he suddenly found Richie in the same building as him?

Or to the way both Stanley and Richie are smiling so broadly at the sight of each other in Richie’s brief video. 

It’s fine. Of course it’s fine. Eddie loves both Richie and Stan so goddamn much that, honestly, the sight of them embracing fills his heart with warmth. 

Richie and Stan have been friends since he met them – for years before Eddie knew either of them at all, even. The two of them met in kindergarten, and Eddie knows that their families soon bonded over being Jewish in a predominantly non-Jewish town. 

It had always seemed natural that they were closer than most, even if most people seemed to assume that Richie would hate Stan’s prim, fussy approach to life, and that Stan would despise Richie’s barely-controlled chaos. 

Somehow, the two of them balance each other out. 

Eddie can see the two of them interacting as clear as day when he thinks back. 

Richie, forcing Stan out of his comfort zone, his mouth going a mile a minute as he badgers him into doing something dangerous and stupid and _fun_. 

Stan, in return, standing firm in the face of some of Richie’s more reckless schemes, mocking and snapping and pointedly keeping him safe.

Eddie tried his hand at that with Richie, sometimes. It usually just ended up with the two of them bickering and winding each other up, and whatever stupid plan Richie had come up with growing even bigger and more stupid with Eddie’s input.

It was still always fun, though. Even if the two of them always ended up being yelled at by some furious adult, it was always brilliant to see Richie laughing and doing his best to talk his way out of trouble, usually with the opposite result.

Stanley never seemed to get Richie in trouble the same way Eddie did.

Maybe somebody like Richie just really needs somebody like Stan.

Eddie sighs to himself, reminds himself that he’s being ridiculous. He tells himself that it is really, genuinely, wonderful to know that Richie has somebody around to keep an eye on him, even if it is only for a short while. 

Then he resolutely sets his phone aside.

He drives home after work, and with his thoughts pounding restlessly in his skull, he puts his phone in the glove box while he does so. 

Crashing his car during Mike’s initial phone call was no doubt due to the sudden rush of frantic fear that his voice had summoned, rather than the act of taking a call at all, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.

Still, he curses under his breath when he pulls up to his garage and sees a missed call from Richie.

There’s nothing stopping him from heading inside and greeting Myra. From dutifully listening to her recap her day and taking his evening dose of supplements and getting started on dinner. Richie hasn’t even left a voicemail, and there are no further texts explaining the purpose of his call, which suggests it was nothing important. There’s no reason to call him back immediately.

Hell, he could even head inside and casually call Richie back in the same room as Myra, in full awareness of the fact that she’d be listening in throughout.

Theoretically, at least. In reality, the mere thought of talking to Richie in Myra’s presence leaves his stomach clenching anxiously.

Eddie had explained away his sudden trip back to Derry as a long-ago agreed-upon reunion with his friends which he had sworn to attend. Myra had immediately decided they must be bad influences, practically forcing Eddie to return no matter how often he insisted he wanted to. 

She scowled at them all as Eddie showed her a picture, and then she recognised Richie’s face from his various television specials, and launched into a scathing rant about his “so-called comedy”.

Myra is not a fan of Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier.

So Eddie quickly closes the garage door before Myra can spot that he is home, and calls Richie back from the safety of his car. 

The phone rings a few times before Richie picks up, and Eddie smiles instinctively at the sound of his voice. “– Does seven work for you? Okay, I gotta – Eddie’s calling me – hi, Eds!” Richie says brightly, apparently battling several thoughts at once as usual. 

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie grins. The churning in his stomach dissipates with the sound of his voice, as though nothing has ever been wrong at all. “What’s up?”

“Not much! Well, no, I mean, you know – can you believe this?” Richie laughs down the line. “I’m in Stan’s hotel room right now. We booked into the same fucking hotel without even knowing it, Eds! It just… felt right, y’know? Picking this hotel out of all of them, I mean. Mike said it best, that’s incredible. This shit is crazy, am I right?”

“ _You’re_ crazy,” Eddie grins, even though he knows exactly what Richie means. He’s had that feeling before; a gut feeling, a certainty that out of a few options, _this_ one was the right one, without anything obvious directing him that way. Any decision he has made with that certainty settled in his gut has always worked out well.

Despite his earlier thoughts, his grin only widens as he hears Stan calling a greeting in the background. “Hey, Stanley! How you doing, buddy?”

Stan says something Eddie can’t quite make out, but Richie bursts into laughter. Eddie’s stomach swirls at the sound of it as Richie’s giggles tail off. “Oh, man. You catch that?”

“Not with you cackling in my ear like a goddamn howler monkey.”

“Ah, it’s fine. Just Stan firing some shots off at me. He hit the bullseye, obviously. Jesus Christ.”

“Never heard of him,” Stan calls in the background, and Eddie and Richie both dissolve into giggles.

“Hey, gimme a second, Eds, okay?” Richie asks, and Eddie’s ears are suddenly filled with a muffled, scratchy noise. He can vaguely hear the two of them talking, and then the sound of a door closing, and the line becomes clear again. 

Eddie hears the swish of denim as Richie continues. “Okay. It’s just you and me now, Eddie Spaghetti. Stan and I are gonna go out for dinner in a while, but he’s got shit to do before then.”

“And you don’t?” Eddie asks, fingers drumming idly on the wheel as he wonders how best to breach the subject of why Richie is in Portland at all. He gives up any pretence of being casual after a second, and asks, “So what the hell’s the deal with this gig? You kept that pretty fucking quiet!”

“Of course I fucking did. I’ve been shitting myself since my agent booked it,” Richie says without hesitation. “I didn’t think announcing it would make it any more fun for anyone involved. Do _you_ tell the world when you’re about to have your twentieth prostate check of the year, or do you keep schtum because telling people only makes them worry about it?”

“Hey, dipshit, prostate checks are important in people of our age,” Eddie snaps. “Prostate cancer is one of the easiest to treat as long as it’s caught early. Have you not had a fucking prostate check yet?”

“Why, Eddie, if you wanted to talk about my asshole you only had to ask,” Richie purrs, and Eddie rolls his eyes. 

“Look, you fucking dickweed, just get booked in if you have any symptoms, okay?”

“Symptoms like what? What symptoms have _you_ had?”

“Well…” Eddie stops, his thoughts whirling. 

A voice which sounds suspiciously like Myra’s speaks first, claiming that he’s been peeing more recently, and that he’s getting up at night more often, and that she’s sure the Kaspbraks have a higher-than-usual propensity towards inheritable cancers, so won’t he get checked out? 

And he had ruminated on it, of course, and gone to see his doctor, of course, who had borne his anxious and pointed request for a check with her usual good grace. It had been fine, thank god.

Another voice – one which sounds like Eddie himself – says that Myra would have no fucking clue if Eddie was getting up at night, because they haven’t shared a bedroom in years, and if Eddie _was_ getting up more often at night, it was because of that goddamn fucking clown creeping into his dreams despite It dying in front of them all.

He clears his throat irritably. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I’ve had. Just mention it to your doctor next time you see them and see what they think. I’m not your own personal Web MD,” Eddie says pointedly, over Richie’s laughter. 

He takes a deep breath and purposefully softens his voice. “Anyway, what’s this shit about telling the world? The rest of us aren’t the world, idiot. You can tell us.”

“You don’t need to hear about my job,” Richie says, dismissal lying heavily on his words. “It’s boring.”

“You’re a stand-up comedian, Richie! Somehow! Despite you being you,” Eddie laughs, hoping to tease a chuckle out of him, and he can’t help but smile when it works. “It has to be more interesting than what I do.”

“Eddie my love, I could spend all day poking myself in the eye and still find it more diverting than whatever the hell you do,” Richie says cheerfully. 

Eddie hears a door close behind him as Richie apparently reaches his own hotel room and, now safe from the prying eyes of the public, he huffs a sigh. “Seriously. I’m either sitting in my underwear trying to find an interesting way to say something, and panicking about my manager being right and me never having come close to being funny, or I’m sweating my balls off on stage proving him right. None of you need to hear about that.”

“Don’t talk yourself down, moron,” Eddie snaps, and Richie lets out a shriek of laughter.

“Eddie! With positive thinking like that you could be a motivational speaker, my man! Don’t talk yourself down, moron,” he echoes with such fondness in his tone that Eddie’s cheeks flush red. “That’s good, Eds. That’s real good. I, uh, I might actually use that on stage, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure, whatever, I don’t care,” Eddie says after a moment of silent surprise. “Quote me all you like. But you know what I mean!”

“I do not, in fact, know what you mean,” Richie says in a sing-song voice.

Eddie sighs, massaging his own temples. “Do not make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“Richie!”

“Eddie?”

“Oh, shit, you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?” Richie says again, and Eddie can practically hear his shit-eating grin.

He groans, swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut. If Richie wants sincere, he’ll fucking get it. “You’re the funniest person I know,” he says quietly. “And you’re smart as hell, too, even if you’d be the last person to say it. You can do this. I know it’s gotta be fucking terrifying, putting yourself out there on stage as, like, the real you, but if anybody could do it and really fucking ace it… I know it’s you. You’re funny, Richie. You can do this.”

A stunned silence grows between them for a moment, before Richie clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is suspiciously thick. “Well, geez. Maybe you really could be a motivational speaker.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Eddie grins, as warmth blooms in his chest. “You’re still an asshole, asshole.”

“There he is!” Richie trills, apparently delighted. “There’s my Eddie!”

“You’ll be fine, okay? I mean it. I know it. Hey, will Stan be there? Oh, god, you’re not – your gig isn’t for Stan’s conference, is it?” Eddie breathes, suddenly hoping against hope that this is the case. He crosses his fingers. “Have you gone fucking corporate? Are you the entertainment for a room of fucking accountants?”

“I should be so lucky,” Richie sighs. “Nah. It’s for some students. They do some kinda open night thing, and they asked me to step in for one. I think they reached out as a gag, and then my manager convinced me to say yes, and that might just be the funniest joke of the night.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, surprised. His fingers drum restlessly on the wheel. “That’s… great, Richie. Honestly.”

“It’s smaller than you expected,” Richie says, the ghost of a laugh behind his words, and Eddie sighs. 

The thing is, Richie is clever. He always has been. 

Eddie remembers their time at school all too clearly; days spent staring helplessly at textbooks, revising and quizzing himself and willing the information to just make sense already, all the while secretly thinking that it just wasn’t _fair_ that Richie could spend entire lessons goofing off and neglect to do his homework and _still_ get A’s on all their tests.

He was disruptive, and he had an attention span of approximately a nanosecond, and he was every teacher’s nightmare student, but dammit, Richie was _smart_. 

He’s always been more perceptive than he lets on. 

Eddie knows it’s on purpose; that Richie has always preferred to be underestimated, and to be spared the pressure of people’s expectations. 

So he plays the idiot, and talks himself down, and does everything he can to suggest he’s the lowest common denominator in every situation – but not much gets past him, and whenever he drops the dumbass façade, it always catches Eddie off guard.

“That’s not what I meant,” Eddie protests, as shame squirms in his belly. “Richie, I mean it, I just… didn’t know _what_ to expect. That’s all.”

“Did you forget that I’m a fuck-up, Eds?” Richie says, his words more patient than Eddie had expected he could sound. “My last gig bombed, and then I dropped off the radar to go _kill a dude_ , and I came back refusing to fulfil any of my existing obligations due to, like, a fucking amnesia-related breakdown. You don’t get to be flavour of the month after pulling shit like that, my man.”

Eddie’s frown is growing deeper by the second. “Wait, you had a breakdown?”

“What? No. Well, I mean, fuckin’… yes! It took place in a sewer while I watched my childhood – while I watched _you_ almost get impaled on a space clown’s crab claw. After you got stabbed in the face, and also after I buried an axe in the skull of the lunatic who did it. Does none of this sound familiar?” Richie asks pointedly, before his voice becomes strangled with horror. “Oh, god, Eddie, are you forgetting again, because I can’t – Eddie, _please_ -”

“- I remember, I remember it all,” Eddie says quickly. “Beep beep, Richie, stop. I remember. I promise.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, okay,” Richie breathes, and stops speaking for a long moment. All Eddie hears for a while is the harsh drag of his breaths as he struggles to calm himself. Eventually, he fumbles with the phone, and drawls, “Okay. Everything’s cool with the Trashmouth.”

“You’ve never been cool,” Eddie says, and cannot help but let his fondness shine through his words. None of them had been cool at any point in their lives, except possibly Bev, who only achieved it by not having to try at all.

“I have never been cool,” Richie confirms easily. “But if you can believe it, I am even less cool now than I ever was. I’m so uncool that not even the gigs offered by fucking accountants are achievable anymore. Though since when do you give a shit about me going corporate? I’ve gotta eat, Eddie!”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t fucking sell out to do that!”

“Oh, is that what you’re worried about? Worry no more, baby,” Richie drawls. “I sold the fuck out a long, long time ago. I don’t even write my own material, remember?”

“You didn’t. But you are now, right?” Eddie presses, and Richie falls silent.

Eventually, he sighs. “I’m trying, man. We’ll see how it goes, huh.” 

He pauses for a second, and when he speaks again, he sounds brighter. “Stan’ll tell me. He’s coming to see me tomorrow. I’ve twisted his arm.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it took a lot,” Eddie says dryly. “I’m sure your oldest friend wasn’t dying to see you perform.”

“Dying,” Richie echoes, and Eddie’s heart sinks.

“Richie…” He swallows, and tries to find the words to shape his thoughts as his hand tightens on the wheel. It’s too big; he settles for asking, “How is he?"

“He’s good. I really think he’s good, Eds,” Richie murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft, and Eddie is suddenly so, so glad that it was Richie that Stanley ended up with today. He loves all of his friends, and honestly, he’d turn to any of them if he ever needed them in a crisis, but nobody can cheer them up like Richie. “He seems like himself, y’know? Just like the dude I remember, only taller. And hotter, obviously,” he finishes with a laugh.

Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise, and then a hot jolt of _something_ flashes through him like wildfire, scorching along his nerves. 

It feels almost like jealousy.

He laughs after a long moment, startled by his response and feeling ridiculous as he spins his wedding ring restlessly around his finger. “Obviously,” he echoes, because it’s objectively true. Even if he doesn’t look at guys that way, Eddie can still tell that Stan is handsome as hell. 

He’s not sure why it bothers him so much to hear Richie say it, but it’s true.

He avoids his own gaze in the rear-view mirror and starts quietly doing his familiar breathing exercises in the hopes of calming himself as Richie goes on. 

“I’m gonna keep an eye on him while I’m here,” he promises. “He’s already said he’s gonna stay on an extra day so he can see me. His company have only paid for him to be here until tomorrow, so he’s gonna crash with me after the gig. I’ll do some prying. Make sure he’s doing okay.”

“Hey, do me a favour?”

“Sure thing, Eds. Anything.”

Eddie smiles, and lets out a slow, steady breath. “Ask Stanley to do the same in return, okay?”

Richie pauses for a second, then huffs a laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m okay, Eddie. I’m always okay. What, are you worried about little ol’ me?”

Eddie shrugs. He finds his eyes fixing on his wedding ring again as he murmurs, “Sometimes. You just seem tired, is all. Why, is there something wrong with worrying about my friend? It’s not like it’s a crime!”

“Well, you don’t have to worry, all right? I’m fine,” Richie says firmly before laughing. “Fine like your sexy little ass, Kaspbrak, damn!”

“Okay, all right, well, I think we’re done here,” Eddie sighs, but when he glances into the rear-view mirror, he sees a smile on his face, and his cheeks are flushed. He frowns as something occurs to him. “Wait, are we? What did you call me for?”

“You called me, Eduardo.”

“I called you _back_ , idiot!”

“Yeah, yeah. I dunno, man,” Richie says easily enough. Eddie can hear his fingers rattling against some hard surface as he talks, restlessly drumming as he speaks. “I saw Stan, and suddenly I realised that I really fucking missed him, and then hot on the tails of that I was like… _man_ , do I miss Eddie, jeez! So I called. That’s all. No biggie.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, and does not try to stop the pleased smile blooms with Richie’s words. “I, uh. I miss you too, jackass. God only knows why, but I do.”

Richie groans happily. “Man, that’s the stuff! Nobody insults me like you do, Eds.”

“Nobody deserves it like you,” Eddie grins, and Richie bursts into laughter. Eddie’s soul soars at the sound of it. 

There really is nothing like talking to one of the Losers.

Leaving Derry had not been difficult at all, the second time around. Frankly, Eddie would be happy never to set foot in the place again. He wouldn’t shed a tear if the entire place split in two and fell into the earth, buried under itself until it was completely forgotten.

But leaving his friends… 

That had taken some effort.

He had been the first of them to head back to their old lives. Splashing around in the Barrens had been wonderful, in a disgusting way; just familiar enough to be nostalgic, despite his worries about the cleanliness of the water, and washing the stink of It away from them while surrounded by the laughter of his friends had been much-needed catharsis.

But as they headed back in search of a celebratory breakfast at what Mike promised was the best diner in town, he became more and more aware of the endless buzzing in his pocket, as Myra filled up his voicemail with frantic messages. He glanced at his phone again and again as they left the Barrens, the giddy chatter of his friends drowned out by his rising anxiety.

With It dead and gone for good this time, and with the scars on their hands fading reassuringly, Eddie had ordered an egg-white omelette and slipped awkwardly away from the group to call her from outside the diner.

He remembers glancing tiredly at his friends through the window as Myra wailed at him. They had all been talking over each other, excitedly stuffing their mouths and celebrating at the same time.

Except Richie.

Richie had been watching Eddie from inside the restaurant, his chin resting on his hand and his eyes distant in a way he couldn’t parse. He had only quirked his lips briefly when Eddie met his gaze, then turned his attention to his coffee.

By the time Myra was done yelling, and crying, and begging him to come home _right now, please, Eddie-bear, you’re scaring me_ , Eddie’s food was cold, and he had a ticket on the next flight to New York.

Richie had not seemed at all surprised when Eddie self-consciously announced that he’d was heading home for later that afternoon, even as the rest of the group crowded around him and tried to talk him into staying just a little bit longer. 

Richie hadn’t joined in with their pleas. He had just asked if he’d got a discount by booking a child seat.

He had been the one to drive Eddie to the airport, in the end. He had hugged him tightly, and made him promise to text when he was home safe, and watched as Eddie waved and grinned and headed to the departure lounge.

Eddie’s smile was gone by the time he landed in New York.

Now, with Richie laughing in his ear, he tries to pretend that he isn’t thousands of miles away. He tries to let himself think, just for a moment, that they are back in their youth; that he could hop out of his front door and be with Richie in the time it took to bike down a few streets.

It’s a wonderful thought. He wishes it was real.

God, he misses Richie. 

“Eddie gets off a good one!” Richie says gleefully. “I’ll talk to you soon, buddy, okay? I should go hose myself off before I subject Stanley to my presence again.”

“Yeah. Sure. I’ll call you, sometime,” Eddie says, and it feels like a promise. He glances at the door leading into the house, and sighs softly. “Have fun, okay?”

“You too, Eds. Uh, tell, uh… tell your wife I said hey, okay?” Richie adds suddenly, startling Eddie into a silence which stretches out slightly too long.

“Sure,” he says eventually. “Of course. Bye, Richie.”

“Bye, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie goes inside, eventually. 

He does not mention Richie to Myra.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Richie has his first gig since That One, and the author indulges her love of flashbacks, because Stan is worth it.
> 
> Warning for mentions of suicide attempts and thoughts, because Stan, though nothing as graphic as the movie to be honest.

The evening passes slowly, in a blur of conversation he is almost never fully tuned in to. Myra fusses over him as he robotically makes dinner, his thoughts a few thousand miles away, and eventually startles him into engaging by forcing his head up to peer into his eyes with a concerned expression.

He steps backwards out of her hold in surprise and promptly bangs his head on a cupboard with a curse.

“Oh, Eddie!” Her eyes widen as she begins to fret, reaching out to push her fingers through his hair and feel his scalp. “You have to be careful, honey! You know how clumsy you can be. Are you okay? It’s not bleeding? Do you need a painkiller?”

“What – no – it’s fine, it was barely even a bump,” Eddie says. He ducks away from her and straightens his hair as she watches him, visibly fretting.

“You know how head wounds can be, honey. We’ll have to keep an eye on it, and make sure it doesn’t open up. We really can’t risk you catching anything, with how delicate your immune system is.”

Her eyes stray to the scar on his cheek, and she reaches out towards it. “I still can’t believe _that_ didn’t get infected.”

The pre-Derry Eddie would have wilted. Now, Eddie draws himself up and meets her gaze. “I’m fine,” he says firmly, and pushes her hand away from his face. “Please. Stop.”

“But your head -”

“- Has never been better,” Eddie says quickly. Her face scrunches into a worried expression, so he summons up a tight smile, and adds, “I promise, honey.”

Her eyes track over his scar again, as they have done so often since he came home from Derry, and her lips curl into a distressed pout. “I just wish you’d let Dr Phillips refer you to a plastic surgeon, Eddie-bear.”

“I don’t need one.”

“But I’m sure they could work wonders on -”

“- It’s fine,” Eddie says, his eyes fixed on the pot he’s stirring. It looks thin and pallid, and he does not anticipate it tasting good.

“They do such amazing work! You wouldn’t ever have to see it again!”

“I like seeing it,” Eddie snaps, and he does not consider the words before they pass his lips, but he realises that they are true as they ring in the silence between them. He clears his throat, and meets her eyes long enough to say, “It reminds me I can be brave.”

Myra opens her mouth, and Eddie resolutely returns his gaze to the soup. 

He starts humming after a moment, and smiles to himself when Myra turns on her heel and stalks away with a huff.

He goes to bed early, his belly full of soup which, as he suspected, does not taste of anything much. But he feels pleasantly drowsy after eating, and sleep comes quickly. 

It feels like a victory.

***

Eddie wakes the next morning to find a few messages on his phone.

Most are in the group chat, where he finds a picture of Stan and Richie eating dinner together; Richie is holding his phone at arm’s length to get the two of them in, and is grinning cheesily into the camera while Stan offers a wry smile behind him. Everybody else has responded while he was sleeping.

Two messages, however, are from Stanley, sent to him privately. He opens them, and is met with a picture of Richie, apparently taken without him realising. 

It shows him laughing, his eyes crinkled at the corners behind his glasses, and his smile bright and broad as a hand gestures wildly in the air. The other hand is in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he tilts his head back, displaying the line of his throat beneath his stubble. 

The breath is punched from Eddie at the sight of it. 

He stares at it for a long moment, surprised by the depth of his reaction. His stomach is swirling happily, a bubble of excitement growing at the pit, and he cannot help but feel a heated flush build at his cheeks. 

It’s probably just because Richie looks like he’s enjoying himself. It’s good to see his friend having fun. That has to be it.

Then he reads Stan’s message.

**Stan:** _He was talking about you. He does that a lot._

Eddie blinks in astonishment as his chest tightens. Not, he knows, due to a bullshit psychosomatic asthma diagnosis.

He saves the picture.

Later, hours later, when he’s had time to wake up and distract himself with work, he builds up the courage to reply.

**Eddie:** _So what else is new? I’ve always been his favourite joke._

**Stan:** _And there’s nothing Richie likes more than a joke._

Eddie frowns at the quick reply. His stomach tightens and he aims a defensive, accusatory scowl at the screen, as though Stanley can see him.

**Eddie:** _Very funny. Shouldn’t you be paying attention to your conference?_

**Stan:** _Message received. I’ll let you know how his gig goes._

**Eddie:** _Thanks. Let me know how badly he bombs._

Eddie puts his phone down, types two words into his computer, then sighs, and picks his phone back up.

**Eddie:** _And thanks for the picture._

Stan does not reply, which he takes as the best possible representation of pointed smugness. Eddie furiously tells himself it does not mean Stan has won anything. 

He irritably puts his phone in a drawer for the rest of the day, and ignores it until it is almost time for him to head home.

When he finally checks it, he finds the group chat has remained in unabatedly high spirits.

Mike has sent a series of photographs of himself on a beach, drinking something ostentatious and fruity while reading one of Bill’s books, followed by a delighted shot of himself with a turtle, which has sent most of them through the roof with happiness. Ben has embarked on a campaign of texts trying to encourage Mike to adopt it, amongst which Bill’s plaintive, “But what do you think of the book, Mike?” has apparently been lost.

Eddie chuckles as he scrolls through it all, ignoring his watch as it flashes a warning that traffic on his usual route home is looking bad. 

The home at the end of the route looks no better, so he sees no reason to worry about getting there quickly.

Eventually, with the group chat exhausted – Mike eventually diplomatically tells Bill that he likes the book _so far_ , which Bill takes with as much grace as he can muster – Eddie checks his other texts.

**Richie:** _shit eddie why the fuck did i agree to do this gig haha_

Eddie frowns at the message and realises with a quick stab of guilt that Richie sent it several hours ago. 

He re-reads it a few times, and finds he is not sure what to make of it; it doesn’t read like a genuine question, but something about it has his heart fluttering nervously.

Richie, while quick to play up his image as an enormous fumbling fuck-up, is not usually one for expressing serious anxiety in the face of anything less than, well, _It_. The idea of him being genuinely nervous about performing, about entertaining a crowd the way he has done practically since he could talk, is oddly upsetting.

Eddie sighs, and quickly types back.

**Eddie:** _Because you’re an idiot._

**Eddie:** _But I’ve heard some people are into that. Apparently some people are even willing to pay to see that!_

He sends his messages, then reads them over, and abruptly decides that the teasing tone he tried to get across instead reads as just plain mean. 

The message changes to indicate Richie has seen it, and suddenly it feels lacking. 

Is this all he has to offer to his best friend? An insult, and a backhanded compliment? Eddie’s thumbs hover anxiously over the keypad, nervously itching to say more, but his brain offers nothing else. 

His thoughts are paralysed in the face of a Richie who needs his support, and he feels a desperate surge of shame at his inability to say the right thing.

He killed a monster for Richie, once upon a time; tore Its face open using nothing but the power of belief and the desperate desire to see him safe. 

He had been brave, then. Where is _that_ Eddie now? 

He sucks in a deep, whistling breath, and quickly forces his thumbs into action.

**Eddie:** _Seriously, it’s going to be absolutely fine. You’ll be amazing. You always are. I know you can do this. There’s nothing you can’t do._

He grimaces as he watches Richie type, and then stop for a long moment, before he starts typing again; he fights the urge to send an apology before Richie can even say anything.

**Richie:** _where the hell do you get off man_

Eddie’s heart stops in his chest as he reads Richie’s response, but Richie sends a further flurry of texts before he can start backtracking and begging forgiveness.

**Richie:** _fucking believing in me_

**Richie:** _you asshole!_

**Richie:** _a dude just caught me crying in the bathroom_

**Richie:** _which to be fair is not the first time that has happened but it’s always been for pretty different reasons than this_

**Richie:** _thanks eddie_

**Richie:** _i won’t lie and say i definitely won’t throw this in your face next time you’re telling me that i’m a fucking moron but i really needed this right now_

Eddie stares in astonishment, then bursts into hysterical laughter. 

**Eddie:** _I almost had a fucking heart attack! Fuck you man!_

**Richie:** _aww eddie don’t you know i could never be mad at you???_

**Richie:** _not when i love my eddie spaghetti so gosh darn much <3_

Eddie blinks in surprise, then his heart begins to thud in his chest. He laughs to himself, and shakes his head. 

He is ridiculous. Richie is even more ridiculous, and Eddie knows better than to rise to his baiting.

**Eddie:** _Yeah, yeah. Whoever is stupid enough to pay good money to see you – knock ‘em dead._

He pauses, bites his lip, and self-consciously adds another message.

**Eddie:** _Love you too, Trashmouth._

He heads down to his car and starts the drive home. When he gets there, after being caught in truly awful traffic for well over an hour, he checks his phone and finds a message from Richie. He opens it, and sees he has filled the screen with hearts.

He laughs, and ignores the beep from his watch it warns him about the sudden spike in his heart rate.

***

He drifts through his evening, restless but not quite willing to admit the reason why. He makes dinner, and eats it while Myra recounts her day, and indulges her in a discussion about one of her new co-workers, agreeing that yes, it was certainly audacious of them to start issuing new nicknames to the office staff within mere days of joining them.

His mind is not present at all.

When Myra decides to go upstairs and have a long, relaxing bath, having long since given up on trying to coquettishly entice Eddie into joining her to wash her back, Eddie finds himself mooching edgily around the house. 

He turns on Netflix and watches ten minutes of a documentary on something or other, before turning it off with a huff. He reads most of chapter of one of Bill’s books, then guiltily sets it down after realising he’s not following it at all. He logs on to Facebook, sees one of his co-workers ranting about an unnamed fellow co-worker without any real attempt at subterfuge regarding who they mean, and irritably sets his laptop aside.

Eventually he gives up on his evening and goes to bed before Myra emerges from the tub. He checks his texts, scowls when he sees nothing from Richie or Stan, and before he can stop himself, finds himself typing Richie’s name into YouTube. Endless clips present themselves to him.

He stifles a sigh, and begins watching. This, to his annoyance, keeps his attention.

It is not as though Eddie has never seen Richie’s stand up before. When Richie revealed that he did not write his own material, Eddie had not felt astonishment, but vindication. 

He remembers he would catch him on TV occasionally, stumbling across his specials or seeing him on various talk shows, and he had always had the same opinion of him; the one he voiced outwardly, in agreement with Myra, that this loud, scruffy, coarse guy just was not funny at all - and the confused, uncertain thought beneath it all, that whispered that something about him was weirdly familiar, but that none of what he was saying seemed like _him_.

Watching him now makes for a weird sense of cognitive dissonance. 

He watches Richie lazily stroll around a variety of stages, looking simultaneously as familiar to Eddie as his own shadow and still older than he expects, and everything that comes out of his mouth sounds wrong. 

Well. Almost everything. 

Every now and then, amid the stream of hyper-masculine, ridiculously over the top lies about his sex life and the world’s most long-suffering fictional girlfriend, Richie will say something which actually sounds like the person Eddie remembers. 

It might be one of his old Voices, used for one of the unfortunate people having to deal with his shit in his stories, or a comment simultaneously sharp and stupid thrown at a heckler. 

Every time it happens, it is as though the curtains have parted, and Eddie has caught a glimpse of the real Richie Tozier, hidden behind them.

Those moments are the only times Eddie laughs. His heart aches dully in his chest.

Eventually, a notification interrupts one of the videos; a message from Stan.

He hurriedly clicks onto it, and finds a photograph posted in the group chat. It shows Richie, slumped tiredly in a chair with his hands fisted in his messy hair. Sweat shines on his forehead, and his face is pasty in the harsh light, but he aims a triumphant smile at the ceiling. 

**Stan:** _Turns out Richie can be funny when he tries. Who knew?_

Eddie jolts upright in bed, his heart suddenly racing as a grin spreads across his face. It is ridiculous, but he feels suddenly victorious, as though he had in some way participated in Richie’s success beyond just believing that it could happen. 

That it _would_ happen.

He kicks the covers aside and swings his legs out of bed, ignoring the chill which assails his bare feet as they rest on the hardwood floor. He clicks his bedside lamp on, suddenly wide awake.

**Eddie:** _Did people love it? Did many people show up? Did you laugh?_

**Ben:** _Haha! I knew Eddie wouldn’t be asleep for this! :)_

**Bev:** _who could sleep through the triumphant return of the trashmouth!_

**Ben:** _Definitely not Eddie! :) :)_

Eddie scowls at Ben’s comment, all too aware that his face is flushing. He knows damn well that he’s never been able to hide his feelings; that his thoughts show on his face as they flit across his mind. 

He also suspects, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this has always been doubly the case when it comes to Richie. 

But why shouldn’t he take an interest in his best friend’s first gig since Derry? Richie has been through just as much as the rest of them, and left his career in shambles by running home to help. Of course Eddie cares that he’s taking steps to rectify that.

He sets his jaw and his thumbs jab furiously at the keypad.

**Eddie:** _Were you there to see it? No! So shut up and let Stan talk!_

**Ben:** _I guess I asked for that…_

**Bev:** _i did tell you not to poke the bear sweetheart_

**Eddie:** _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

**Bev:** _nothing!_

**Ben:** _Nothing Eddie! Sorry! :(_

**Stan:** _Maybe we should all just go to bed. We’ll all have clearer heads in the morning._

**Eddie:** _Tell me how the fuck it went before I drive there and beat the answers out of you myself!_

**Bill:** _Question, Mike - what are the rules on beeping people other than Richie? If we ever made any I’ve forgotten them. Asking for a friend…_

**Mike:** _You know, I don’t think it ever occurred to us to try?_

**Mike:** _I’m not saying the rest of us never deserved it, but I don’t think we ever thought anybody but Richie would go along with it._

**Mike:** _How interesting! I don’t even know why it ever worked on Richie. Any theories?_

Eddie is aware that his teeth are grinding together in frustration. He is about to go off on a rant when he sees that Stan is typing, and forces himself to suck in a deep breath. 

He fills his lungs, holds it for a second, and breathes out in a slow whoosh, trying to force out his frustration along with it. 

It doesn’t work, but at least it takes up some time while Stan types.

**Stan:** _It was a college open mic night. The kid running it told me they often ask comedians to come along, but only asked Richie as a joke. They were blown away when he said yes. Apparently, nobody this big has ever said yes before. Richie told them he doesn’t count as big anymore, and that his aim for the gig was just to get through it without vomiting. The place was small, but it was packed. Maybe 200 people came. Other people went on first and Richie closed the show._

**Stan:** _And yes, Eddie, he was funny, and I laughed quite a few times. Everyone was laughing. He was obviously nervous, and I think everybody could tell as much, but he was very sharp. He talked about his last show, and how badly it went, and spun it into a story about being just about to head home for a “reunion” and finding out that a serial killer was on the loose there right before he went on stage. He mostly talked about that “reunion” for his set. I won’t spoil it for you, because I’m sure he’ll be doing more gigs after this and you should all see it for yourselves, but his impression of Ben falling into the clubhouse was particularly well-received._

**Bev:** _haha!!_

**Ben:** _I suppose I’m glad somebody got something out of that D:_

**Ben:** _Wait, does this mean I get to take partial credit for what is definitely the start of Richie’s comeback?_

**Richie:** _you’ve always been an inspiration haystack so i guess I can give you 5% of the nothing i earned from this gig if you really really need it mr bigshot architect_

**Richie:** _also i know you’re all wondering and yes i got through without blowing chunks!_

**Richie:** _so success achieved bitches!!_

**Stan:** _Didn’t you vomit pre-show?_

**Richie:** _ugh i knew i couldn’t sneak anything past you_

**Stan:** _Nobody can. Nothing. Ever. I know all of your secrets._

**Bill:** _Damn, Stan._

**Bev:** _was stanley always this terrifying?_

**Mike:** _…moving past the fact that Stan is apparently all-knowing – well done, Richie! I’m so proud of you!_

**Ben:** _Me too! Well done Richie! I knew you could do it!_

**Bev:** _yeah well done trashmouth! I’m proud of you kiddo!_

**Bill:** _Same! You’ll be selling out theatres in no time!_

**Ben:** _We love you! Remember us when you’re a megastar! Again!_

**Richie:** _guys! thanks! it was just a bunch of drunk students so whatever but thanks!_

Eddie scowls at his screen again, snapped out of mulling over Stan’s description of the show with Richie’s dismissive comment. He glances once again at the picture Stan had sent them, taking in the sheer relief which seems to be rolling off Richie, and begins typing furiously.

**Eddie:** _Shut the fuck up dipshit!_

**Eddie:** _This is a big deal and you know it! This is the first time you’ve performed in months AND it was all your own material, right? You must have been terrified, regardless of who was watching you! We’re all so goddamn proud of you for doing this! Don’t you fucking dare minimise this! We’re proud of you and we love you! Fuck off!_

He breaks off with a flush as everyone begins to react, laughing emojis flooding the chat, along with a fearful one from Ben. Finally, as he re-reads his message and begins to panic about how stark it looks, Richie responds.

**Richie:** _there’s my sweet eddie!!!_

**Richie:** _okay everyone please allow me to rephrase_

**Richie:** _thank you all sincerely for believing in me_

**Richie:** _i love you all too_

**Richie:** _and please consider me well and truly fucked off <3_

Eddie sighs in relief. It’s probably not good, that any attempt at encouraging or complimenting Richie comes out as a furious rant, but he just can’t help himself. He’s never been able to find a better way to get through to him, and at least Richie always seems to respond positively to it.

He sets his phone down, meaning to finally try for sleep – it’s past ten-thirty, and as wired as he is after Richie’s success, he still has work tomorrow – when the screen lights up with a text. He picks it back up, and sees Stan’s name.

He has sent another picture of Richie, this time bent over his phone, apparently unaware that Stanley is photographing him. He looks no less tired than in the previous picture, and his hair is a matted, sweat-damp tangle atop his head, but Eddie’s heart clenches at his expression; he wears a soft, fond smile, gentler than any Eddie would normally associate with Richie, and his eyes are shining and crinkled at the corners as he gazes at his phone.

**Stan:** _Just thought you would like to see his reaction to those messages you sent._

His breath catches in his throat. What is Stan implying?

Eddie swallows hard as his heart begins to jackrabbit in his chest. It is ridiculous; he’s not even sure what he’s panicking about. All Stan has done is send him a picture of his best friend reacting to a message Eddie himself had sent. 

Stan does know all of them very well; he probably realised that Eddie would work himself up into a tizzy, wondering if Richie would take his frustrated flurry of texts badly. He’s probably just trying to reassure him. 

It’s just a sweet gesture. That’s all.

He breathes for a moment, trying to calm himself, before he replies.

**Eddie:** _Not sure why? But thanks I guess_

Eddie has time to re-make his tousled bedclothes and go to the bathroom before Stan, after stopping and starting typing, eventually sends his reply.

**Stan:** _You know, sometimes I wonder how any of you made it into your forties while being this dense. Good night._

**Eddie:** _What the fuck Stanley?_

**Stan:** _Good night, Eddie._

Eddie’s flush could set the sheets aflame, and if he gives his pillow a few frustrated punches in the name of getting it into a comfortable shape, Stan does not need to know.

***

Sleep takes a while to find him, what with the excitement over Richie’s success and the palpable feeling of Stan’s knowing gaze raking over him, but Eddie must drop off at some point, because he startles awake when his phone begins to buzz on his nightstand.

He levers himself upright and fumbles for it, groaning first at the sudden light from the screen, and then when he sees the time; three twenty-eight. 

He blearily realises it is Richie’s name that has popped up on his screen before he answers with a mumbled, “I got work tomorrow, so this better be important, dickwad.”

He hears Richie’s breathe catch for a second, and then he speaks. “You mean you got work _today_. Sorry, man, I’ll call you another time. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Eddie flops back down against his pillow with a frown. Richie sounds genuinely apologetic, which is rare enough to catch his attention, but exhaustion lies behind his words, and… and something else, beneath it all. Something he can’t quite parse. “Y’called at three in the morning for nothing?”

“No, I – it’s – nothing that can’t wait,” Richie amends. He’s whispering, and sounds strangely echoey. “Seriously, go back to sleep. Sorry.”

“Where are you? Y’sound weird,” Eddie asks around a yawn.

“I’m in my hotel room. In the bathroom. Look, forget about it, okay? I’ll leave you alone. Go back to sleep.”

“Why’re you whispering?” Eddie asks, before a thought occurs. He rolls over, mashing his phone into the pillow as he half-lies on it. “Oh, Stan’s staying with you, right. You’re trying not to wake him?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s awake. He woke _me_.”

His brows draw together in confusion. “Then why’re you whispering?”

“Oh.” Richie pauses, and Eddie hears him shuffling about for a moment, before he huffs a tired laugh. “Then I dunno, I guess. He’s probably trying to sleep. I don’t wanna keep him up.”

“But you want to keep me up,” Eddie sighs, even though his heart isn’t in it. “Asshole.”

“That’s me,” Richie agrees. “Listen, Eds -”

“- Don’t lie to me,” says Eddie easily. Richie falls silent, and Eddie curls his legs up to his chest as he snuggles down into the duvet. “And don’t call me that, I guess, though I feel like the boat has sailed on that one. Why’d you call, Richie?”

He hears Richie shuffling around some more, and draws on his limited supplies of patience to wait him out. It is late, and he’s sleepy, and he’s already dreading trying to function at work later, but the one thing he has going for him right now is that the only person in this friend group with less patience than him is Richie.

Eventually, Richie sighs, and when he speaks, his voice is muffled, as though he’s speaking through his hands. “Stan had a nightmare.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, puzzled when nothing further is offered. “That sucks. Is he okay?”

“He… he said he was. But man, he – he was kinda… thrashing. And crying. Sobbing, really,” Richie admits, offering the information at a glacial pace. He sighs again, and the sound tugs at Eddie’s chest. 

He wishes, abruptly, that he was there to listen in person; that he could reach out and put a hand on Richie’s knee and squeeze, the way he had only ever had the chance to when the two of them were alone together in their youth.

Richie was not the kind of person to cry with other people around to see it. 

When in a group, no matter how miserable he was, Richie was always more likely to repress it; to push it down, and ignore his feelings in favour of distracting others with jokes, or insults, or whatever misdirection he could manage.

But sometimes, when it was just the two of them… sometimes, when they were alone in the clubhouse, crammed together in that tiny hammock, something changed. 

Sometimes Richie’s walls came tumbling down, and Eddie was allowed to see him for real. To see a Richie who shook with tears, and who reached out desperately for comfort, even if all Eddie could offer was a hug, and a shoulder to lean on while Richie cried himself out.

And then, almost before it began, it was over.

It always went the same way. One minute Richie was weeping against Eddie’s side, and then the next he was scrubbing his eyes dry and shoving his glasses back on with a manic smile fixed suddenly in place. Eddie was always left reeling as Richie laughed about being a fucking _pussy_ , and then life went on as it always had, as though nothing had even happened at all.

They never spoke about the handful of times it had happened. Eddie wonders, suddenly, if anybody else had ever been allowed to see Richie like that.

“It must have been bad, if he woke you up,” he offers. “You sleep like the dead.”

Richie snorts. “He fuckin’ kicked me, dude,” he grumbles, and suddenly Eddie’s stomach swirls.

“You’re sharing a bed?” he asks, and squeezes his eyes shut when Richie laughs.

“Of course we are! I wouldn’t talk him into sharing with me and then make him take the floor, man. And I’m sure as hell not in good enough shape to give up the bed. My spine would, like, fall right off.”

“Right,” Eddie breathes, as his treacherous brain suddenly presents him with a crystal-clear image.

He pictures Richie and Stan going through their evening routines together. He pictures Richie brushing his teeth and talking throughout, toothpaste dribbling down his jaw while Stan rolls his eyes but listens anyway, an amused curl to his lips. Then his mind skips on to the two of them climbing into bed together, inching closer and closer through the night until Richie is curled up around Stan, nosing at his neck with an arm slung comfortably across his waist. 

It is ridiculous. _Eddie_ is ridiculous. What does it matter to him if two of his friends are sharing a bed?

They’re just friends, after all. Nothing is going to happen. Neither of them swing that way, and even if they did, Stan is happily married.

Eddie is married.

And none of this is _any_ of his business.

He forces his eyes open, breathes deeply, and says, “What did he dream about?”

Richie is silent for a long time, before he murmurs, “He wouldn’t tell me. I just know… it was bad. Like, really bad. I can tell.”

“Well, okay. We all have nightmares, though, right?” 

Eddie certainly does. But at least he can say that he no longer gets them every night; not even most nights, by this point. Their frequency seems to be dying down, as they move further away from everything that happened. But he still gets them, now and then.

They are still awful, of course, like a film reel whirling endlessly in his head, replaying sights he would rather forget. 

But if remembering them is the price he has to pay for remembering his friends too, then Eddie thinks he can probably deal with the occasional night of waking up shivering and bathed in sweat. 

He purses his lips, and suggests, “I think having nightmares is pretty normal, right? After everything we went through. It’s probably the only normal thing about any of us!”

“Right. Yeah. No, we all have nightmares, right. I know.” 

Richie falls silent again, and Eddie practically can see him in his mind’s eye; wearing a threadbare t-shirt, slumped against the side of the bath on the floor of some hotel bathroom, glasses off and squinting myopically into the darkness as he fiddles with the hem of his boxers. “It’s just… it was _so_ bad, Eddie. I think maybe… worse than -”

“- It’s not a competition, asshole,” Eddie scowls, and Richie immediately produces a strangled noise.

“No. I know. I’m sorry, jeez. I… Fucking… God, I can’t even find the words for this when I _am_ awake,” he groans. “Sorry, Eds. I know we’re all going through it. I just… I recognise… Ugh.”

“Recognise what?” Eddie asks. His nose scrunches up as a mix of irritation and confusion washes over him. “What’re you trying to say, Trashmouth?”

“He has a huge fucking scar,” Richie blurts instead, his breath speeding, and Eddie abruptly realises what else is underlying his voice; he sounds panicked enough to make Eddie’s thoughts reel away from the subject at hand.

“What?”

“On his arm. Y’know, where he… Y’know. Where It almost got him.”

The terrified shake to Richie’s voice is enough to send Eddie’s memories flying back several months, and suddenly he can picture their time in Derry flickering in his mind’s eye like scenes from a horror movie. It is as though he is present in Derry all over again, reduced to a helpless observer, watching their ordeal unfold around him from behind his own eyes.

***

He sees the six of them as they were at the restaurant, laughing and living it up, even as their curious gazes turn to the conspicuously empty seat at their table.

Then Stanley’s name is finally mentioned, and Richie immediately dismisses the idea that he might turn up with crude name-calling. Eddie’s brow wrinkles in confusion despite not even being able to picture Stan’s face, because sure, their memories are still as patchy as a moth-eaten blanket, but he remembers Stan and Richie being brothers in everything but blood.

His memory flashes forward to the fortune cookies. He feels horror sinking past the alcohol saturating their brains to send them shrinking into corners, shrieking and fighting back against gruesome terrors which can’t possibly be real. Can they?

Welcome home, Losers.

He remembers watching Bev call Stan, and his wife weeping down the line as she struggles through an explanation none of them want to hear. “He… he hurt himself… then came to find me, before… before he… We’re in the hospital now, but, but they think -”

“- They think he cut himself so badly that it’ll be a miracle if he makes it,” Bev finishes before Patricia can. Eddie feels a deep well of grief rise up in his chest, but beneath it, a growing confusion, because okay, what the fuck, how could Bev _know that_?

That, it seems, is that. The lucky seven, down to six not-so-lucky Losers.

They find Ben’s carefully constructed clubhouse and marvel at his skill. They find Stan’s token, and laugh about it, because it’s either laugh or cry, and they suddenly feel like maybe they need to get their laughs in while they can.

_“You having any good chucks?”_ he remembers Richie saying in their youth, and the six of them suddenly need laughter more than they ever have before.

They sit around in the clubhouse and remember Stan as he had been, a face which had been fuzzy suddenly crystal-clear in their minds; curling hair styled as neatly as he could manage, his eyes rolling at the antics of the others around him, even as his lips quirk into a reluctant smile. So smart. So sensible. So afraid. 

Too afraid to keep going, in the end.

And all of them silently wondering just how bad things were going to get if even just the sound of Mike’s voice was enough to convince Stan that _this_ was the best way forward.

They split up. They find their tokens. They go back to the townhouse.

Eddie gets stabbed in the face, which is still the number one theme of his occasional nightmares, but hey, he gives as good as he gets in return, and there is a rush of triumph before the rising nausea. 

He remembers all over again the feeling of blood spurting from his mouth, coating his teeth, his _tongue_ , the taste of it coppery and hot as he swallows.

But they have no time to do more than apply a quick bandage, because suddenly they are running desperately to the library as they panic about Mike. 

Eddie’s pulse pounds in his ears at the thought of what they might find – but somehow, despite catching Richie in the act of burying an axe in Henry Bowers’ head, despite Mike being seconds away from dying, the most unbelievable part of all is that Stan is there too.

The urge to enfold him in their arms battles with the fear that this is Pennywise, donning the guise of their friend to toy with them further, but Richie damn-near explodes when Ben miserably suggests as much.

There is vomit on his chin and a wild look in his eyes as he moves to stand protectively between Stan and the rest of them. “Of fucking course it’s Stan! You don’t think I’d _know_?”

“But Richie – It can look however it wants -”

“- This is Stanley, okay? I know him. I _know_.”

“How?” Beverly asks quietly, her eyes fixed on Stan with something close to wonder.

“Because he… he told me something only Stan could know,” Richie says, and suddenly his eyes drop to the floor, and the anger thrumming through him morphs into something quieter and more muted; embarrassment, Eddie thinks later, as he goes back over the moment. 

Or maybe shame.

Ben still edges forwards with a hand held out in supplication, reaching out to Richie as though to tug him away from Stan. “It knows so much more than we realise, Rich.”

“Not this.” Richie shakes his head, and steps away from Ben to toss an arm around Stan’s shoulders. His face is wan, but his jaw is set in determination. “Because if It knew _this_ , It would definitely be using the details to torture me. And It hasn’t. All my memories of that moment are still good.”

Eddie remembers thinking that it seemed as though nothing short of a geological movement would be powerful enough to make him let go of Stan in that moment. 

His eyes fix on Stan’s face, and though he is trembling, and pale, paler than Eddie thinks it is possible for anyone still standing upright to be, the look he gives Richie at that moment is so warm. He looks grateful for the support, sure, but he also looks incredibly proud. 

As though Richie has really done something amazing.

At the time, Eddie had felt as though they were intruding on something private, and had looked away with a flush.

He still doesn’t know what Richie meant. He’s not sure how to ask.

Whatever Richie means, his vehemence proves enough to convince them. This is their Stanley. 

He seems close to breaking point, a near-ruin of a man; his hair is lank and his skin is almost translucent, and there is a brittle, tight set to his face, and when he shifts in place, his shirt sleeve rises up enough to reveal a tightly bandaged forearm that sets Eddie’s stomach churning, but it is _him_.

He explains what happened with his eyes darting around the room, taking in their boots, the books around them, the door; refusing to meet their gaze as he speaks. His voice is quiet, and slow, but steady. “When I got Mike’s call, a lot slotted into place for me. I realised why I have so many nightmares, and what they mean.”

“What they mean?” Bev asks softly, but Stan’s eyes meet hers only briefly before he goes on.

“And I realised that the people I see in them are all of you.”

“As kids?” Eddie murmurs, because he remembers dreaming of faceless children too; children who never failed to slip from his mind as he woke. 

Stan hesitates briefly, his eyes darting to Beverly again to see her lips pursing, before he nods.

“Yes. As… as we were, back then. And…” His voice trails off. Richie tightens his arm around him, and Stan shoots him a small, grateful look. “I was certain of two things after speaking to Mike: that this was our last chance to beat It, and that we could not do that with me around. That if I came back to Derry I would only hold you all back. So I… I took myself off the board.”

“Stan!”

“That’s bullshit -”

“You’re _not_ -”

“- I _know_. I know. I don’t think that’s true. Honestly, I don’t think that was actually my own thought at all. I think It managed to get to me,” he says quietly.

Bev swallows. “From so far away?”

“Yes.” Stan produces a tight smile. “I always was the weakest of us, after all. I suppose I was easiest to reach for that reason.”

Richie scowls in genuine fury, and the expression looks so stupidly wrong on him that Eddie is left blinking in astonishment. “Don’t fucking say that about yourself!” he snaps, as though he had not been the first to suggest that Stan would not show up.

Eddie wonders, later, just how much guilt Richie is feeling about that.

Stan takes a deep breath, glancing sidelong at Richie, but does not argue. “So I wrote some letters to you all, and I… I told my wife I was going to take a bath.” He raises his bandaged arm weakly. “And I did what I thought I had to do.”

“I’m so glad it didn’t work,” Mike says softly. 

“It almost did. I really think if I had left it just a little while longer, then it would have. But after I… started, I suddenly thought of all of us,” Stan murmurs, and holds up his other hand to show them the scar splitting his palm. 

Eddie unconsciously glances at his own, thumbing along the ridge of it as Stan speaks. “I saw this, and remembered the promise we made, and it was as though my mind cleared. I think I fought It off.”

“Stanley…”

“Patty heard me shouting for help, and she called 911,” he goes on, his voice as steady as if he was discussing the weather. “That was two days ago now. They patched me up, as much as they could, and then I self-discharged from the psychiatric ward.”

Everyone bursts into alarmed responses. “Stan!”

“Jesus! You don’t think you should be -”

“- I had to come here,” he says quietly, but when he raises his eyes, there is steel behind his gaze. “I _had_ to. They were talking about sectioning me, for a while. My wife… Patty is…” He swallows. “I told her what happened, back then. Some of it, anyway. She agrees that some of the things she’s heard me saying in my sleep make sense now, at least.”

“She sounds like a hell of a woman,” Richie says, stunned, and when Stan smiles, it is like the sun has come out.

“She’s the best. She let me go, in the end. But not before she made me promise to come back to her.” His mouth flattens. “And I keep my promises. We have to do this, guys.”

“When did you get here?” Eddie asks.

“Earlier this afternoon. I was going to call Mike when I got here, but when I got into town I… I just felt like I had to go to temple. I knew in my gut it was where I should go.” He nudges Richie gently in the side. “And that’s where I found him.”

“Richie?”

“Yeah. Well. Truth be told, guys, I was on my way outta Dodge,” Richie admits, and Eddie turns his eyes to him plaintively. Richie groans, and covers his face. “I know, all right? Don’t turn those fucking eyes on me, Eddie! I panicked, okay? Excuse me for thinking this whole goddamn situation is crazy. I was driving out of town and telling myself you’d all be fine, like a liar, and… and then I saw Stan-the-Man drifting around outside his dad’s old stomping ground like a fucking ghost.”

“I talked some sense into him,” Stan says with a trace of a smile. “Once he believed it was me.”

“And here we are,” Richie agrees. He frowns as he looks at the group. “Most of us, anyway. Where’s Bill?”

They manage to get in one desperate, clinging group hug before they realise Bill is on his way to Niebolt Street, and they’re back to following at his heels the same way they always have. 

Eddie keeps an eye on Stan as they ran through town, watching for any signs of him flagging, but he remains determinedly upright despite the faint blue tinge to his lips.

They go into Its house on Niebolt, going deeper than they ever thought possible. They try Mike’s ritual, and feel like they get within an inch of it working, and then Eddie watches them all scatter when it goes horribly wrong. 

Richie, Eddie, and Stan end up running away together, with Richie’s hands clamped firmly around each of their wrists.

And despite their best efforts, Richie… 

Richie ends up in the deadlights. 

Watching it flash past his mind’s eye is no less awful than watching it happen in the first place. 

He sees Richie’s determined stride lurch to an awkward stop. He sees his eyes roll back, and watches the blood trickle weirdly upwards as Richie _rises_ and hangs, just as Beverly once had. He remembers his own heart stuttering in his chest, skipping like a broken record, because no, _no_ , not him.

Not Richie.

And Eddie remembers, as clear as day, what happened next. 

He sees himself striding forward with the fence post brandished in his hands like a spear, putting himself in Its sights because this was Richie, It had _Richie_ , and every part of Eddie was screaming that he had to help. That he had to end this, right now, because Richie needed him.

_“You’re braver than you think.”_

He remembers launching the post clear through Its fucking face and hearing It shriek loud enough to shake the cavern around them.

Richie falls to the floor, and Eddie climbs atop him to declare, “I think I killed It!” as his chest swells with pride and happiness and… and… something he cannot name, something which fills him up and makes him feel like he could do anything right now.

But Richie just stares up at him in something akin to horror, seemingly paralysed after emerging from the deadlights. 

Eddie beams down at him, and waits for Richie to pull himself together. There is no rush. It is dead, after all.

He remembers thinking dizzily, “We have the rest of our lives,” as he looks down at Richie, the thought floating across his mind from nowhere. 

And then he hears a sudden frantic shout, and sees Stanley barrelling towards them from the side of his vision, and Eddie finds himself pushed violently to one side. He bounces hard over rocks and water, all three of them colliding painfully until they skid to a stop in a heap, winded and groaning.

And barely a second later, Eddie sees a monstrous claw slam down exactly where he had been kneeling atop Richie. 

A frustrated shriek echoes around the cave, and Stan scrambles upright, and pulls both of them after him with a desperate, “Run!”

His memory is blurrier after that, a mess of fear and tight lungs and near misses, but he remembers figuring out how to kill It, with the feeling of the leper shrinking beneath his hands suddenly stark in his mind.

And then… all of them. All of them, together, hands overlapping on Its hideous heart and moving together to crush it. 

He remembers watching a fresh crimson trickle stain Stan’s bandages anew as his hand moves, and Stan hardly even seeming to notice, so firm is his grip.

He changes the bandages for him, later, grimly ignoring the churning of his stomach as he wraps the material over a long line of stitches. 

It really got ol’ Stanley good. There could be no doubting that it would scar. Of course Stan would bear Its mark for the rest of his life.

At least, despite Its best efforts, Stan still has a life to live.

***

“Eddie?” Richie’s voice snaps him back into the present with a jump.

Eddie’s hand snakes up from his warm cocoon to brush over his own cheek. “Aren’t you always telling me chicks dig scars?” he asks dryly, as though Myra has ever been anything but horrified by his. 

Richie offers a quiet laugh. “Right. Yeah. Maybe Patty’s into it. I… I think probably not, though, huh?”

“Probably not,” Eddie agrees. His own scar tingles beneath his touch, and he suddenly remembers the feel of Richie squeezing his shoulder as he told him he was braver than he thought. 

He fills his lungs as a flush of warmth rushes through him. “But at least she still has him. At least he was strong enough to get help when he needed it. He’s fine, Richie. He’s still around to _have_ a scar, right?”

“Yeah. Shit, yeah.” Richie shuffles in place, and Eddie hears the sound of bare feet padding around on tiles as he paces. “She still has him. Stan’s still here, and I’m so… I’m so fuckin’ glad. God, this is stupid, right? I didn’t even remember him a few months ago, and now I’m like, freaking out about what the fuck I would even do if Stanley had fuckin’ beefed it! Thanks, Eddie,” he adds abruptly, and Eddie’s head spins again.

“For what?”

“For… this.”

“What?”

“For… I don’t know. Just for you, I guess? Stan had a nightmare, it freaked me out, so I called you to fix me,” Richie laughs softly, a sheepish undercurrent to his voice. “Stupid, right? You’re just… always the first person I want to talk to when I’m…”

“When you’re what?” Eddie whispers. He is trembling, he realises, shivering at Richie’s words.

Richie hesitates, starts to say something, and then sighs softly. “When I’m horny, of course,” he drawls eventually, and Eddie rolls over with a groan.

“Beep _fucking_ beep, Richie.”

“Right. Sure. Listen, it’s super fucking late, sorry, I should go.”

But a thought strikes Eddie as he tries to sign off. “Wait! While I have you -”

“- Oh, Eddie Spaghetti, you _always_ have me, baby.”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , Trashmouth,” Eddie grumbles, his heart not in it. He is suddenly, desperately curious. “Why does it work?”

Richie makes a muffled noise of confusion. “Why does what work?”

“What Mike asked earlier. Us beeping you. I don’t even remember why we do it.”

“Me either.”

“So why does it work?” Eddie presses. “You talk and talk and talk and we can tell you to shut up forever, and you never do, but as soon as one of us says ‘beep beep’, it’s like, quiet time from Richie. Why?”

“I mean, it’s pretty easy, when you think about it,” Richie says after a moment. “You really don’t know?”

“I don’t know fucking anything at four in the morning, asshole, forgive me for needing it spelled out to me.”

Richie sighs again, and Eddie can hear the tiredness behind his words. “When you beep me, I know that’s when I’ve really pushed something too far, so I drop it before you all drop _me_.”

Eddie blinks in confusion. “What? What do you mean?” he asks, and Richie laughs in return. There is no humour in it.

“C’mon, Eddie. Where else would I go if I lost you all through running my fucking mouth? Who the hell else would take me in?”

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, as ice settles in his stomach. “No.”

“No?” Richie lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Tell that to the past twenty-seven years. It’s not like anybody ever came close to replacing you all.”

“No,” Eddie repeats firmly. “Fuck that. No! You’re not – we would never do that to you. Fuck, that’s not… that’s not it at all!”

“You _just_ said you don’t know why you do it,” Richie points out, and now he really does sound amused, as though Eddie has said something genuinely funny.

“I fucking know it isn’t _that_!” Eddie spits. His stomach is churning miserably. “Richie, fucking… listen to me, okay?”

“Okay,” Richie says agreeably, and Eddie sets his jaw.

“We love you. We love you, okay? I swear, I could not possibly mean that more than I do,” he says, and in the darkness, with his wedding ring suddenly feeling heavier than it has a right to, it feels more like a confession than reassurance. 

He swallows hard and forges ahead, ignoring the way his heart is fluttering in his throat. There’s no reason for him to get caught up on telling his best friend that he is loved just because he’s too tired to think straight.

“We will never… fuckin’… _drop_ you, or whatever bullshit is bouncing around in your stupid skull. You’re a part of us. We love you! Wherever the beeping came from, it has never, ever meant that, and it never will. I promise. Please believe me?”

There is silence for longer than Eddie feels he can stand, and then he hears a snuffle, and Richie clears his throat. “Okay. Sure. Okay, Eddie, jeez. I love you too. Uh, all of you. I love all of you, too.”

The ice in his stomach begins to thaw, bit by bit. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I believe you. I promise. If only because you’re fucking terrifying when you’re saying meaningful shit. Thank god I’m not actually there to see it. I bet you’re doing those killer puppy-dog eyes you do, aren’t you? I’d be fuckin’ crying if you were here.”

“I wish I _was_ there,” Eddie says, without thinking, and his eyes slam open as his heart clenches tightly. 

He means it. Holy shit, does he mean it.

Richie laughs softly. “Yeah. Me too, Eduardo. Hey, listen, for-fucking-reals, though, I gotta let you sleep. You gotta be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a long day of terrifying people with statistics, right?”

“And god, you really need your beauty sleep,” Eddie snarks right back at him, and Richie laughs loud enough that Eddie is sure Stan is probably awake once again.

“We can’t all be handsome-as-hell, weirdly-jacked, forty-year-old boy-men!”

“I guess there was a compliment somewhere in there,” Eddie allows. He rolls onto his back, shrouded in the darkness of his guest bedroom, and smiles shyly. 

It feels like folly, allowing himself to be flattered by Richie’s ebullience, but he has never been able to help himself when it comes to Richie. “You grew up handsome enough, y’know. Considering what you looked like as a teenager.”

“Oh, Lord have mercy on me, Edward is gracing me with his kind words,” Richie drawls in what Eddie thinks of as his southern belle Voice. It is, he has to admit, much improved from what he remembers. He can picture Richie fanning himself wildly as he speaks. “I must tell Mama! Daddy will be thrilled! Maybe Edward will even add his name to my dance card?”

“I’m not doing the fucking _Cha Cha Slide_ with you, Richie,” Eddie groans, and grins as Richie laughs again.

“Night, Eddie. Hey – thanks again, okay?”

“Any time,” Eddie smiles. “Night, Richie.”

It takes a long time before Eddie can get back to sleep. He cannot help but wish he was somewhere else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie makes a decision.

Eddie eventually manages to get some more sleep. He has to force himself out of bed when his alarm begins to blare what seems like mere minutes after he drops off, but he feels like it was worth it. 

Richie had sounded so much better, by the end. He can handle a little tiredness, for him.

He has an extra cup of coffee with breakfast, and weathers Myra’s worrying about the dark circles under his eyes with as much grace as he can. 

“I just didn’t sleep well,” he repeats irritably when she asks again if he wants her to book an appointment with his doctor. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe you’re not getting enough B12,” Myra suggests. She picks up his pill caddy, stuffed so full of vitamins and supplements that she always has to force it closed, and peers thoughtfully at it. “Maybe we should fiddle with the doses of your supplements?”

“I’m fine, Myra. I promise. I’m a grown man,” he sighs. “I can handle being a little tired for a day.”

“But it isn’t just ‘a little tired’, Eddie! You’re exhausted! And you’ve been out of sorts since you went away for that, that _reunion_. I knew it would be too much for you. You know how easily you get run down. And coming home with that scar,” she trails off, her nose wrinkled as she looks at him.

He squirms under her gaze, and fights to meet it. 

_“Chicks dig scars,”_ says a phantom Richie in his head, and he can almost feel the way his fingers had gently traced along the line of it when they last said goodbye. There had been something close to wonder in his eyes, and Eddie had been left red-faced and frozen beneath the touch of his hand as a jolt of heat spread through him.

Maybe chicks don’t dig scars, but Richie had sure seemed to. 

The thought is enough of an ego-boost to get Eddie to draw himself up and meet Myra’s eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he says firmly. “I’ve actually never felt better since going back to Derry. It was… it was hard, sure, but it was absolutely worth it.” 

He blinks as a thought occurs to him. Despite the tiredness hanging over him, despite the extra-long days he’s pulling at work, and despite his current impatience, he feels… great. 

He has no niggling aches and pains that his brain keeps worrying over. No anxiety about his risk factors for various conditions. Eddie has not been preoccupied with his health at all.

It is as though he left all of that behind in Derry, buried like so much sewage beneath the ruins on Niebolt Street.

He aims a surprised smile at Myra. “I’ve actually never felt as healthy as I do right now. I don’t need any more supplements. I don’t… I don’t think I need _any_ supplements, Myra.”

“Don’t be silly,” Myra says, and she laughs lightly as she does, as though Eddie has said something incredibly precious. “Sweetheart, you know you do. They keep you healthy. You don’t want to get ill, do you? Let me look after you.”

“You’re not – you don’t need to – I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, Myra. I’m capable of more than you know,” Eddie says, and he hates the tone of pleading that bleeds into his voice.

“Sure you are, Eddie-bear,” Myra chuckles. She holds the box of medication out to him with a big smile, as though handing him a treat. “Come on, sweetheart. You know how your stomach gets if you’re late taking them.

Irritation flares within Eddie. “I don’t have time. I need to get to the office,” he says tightly. “I have a lot of work to finish today.”

“Oh, don’t talk about that office of yours!” Myra begs. “They know damn well how sensitive you are, but they’re always putting on to you. Don’t I always say that they’re working you too hard?”

“Myra, I -”

“- I know it’s flattering that they thought you could handle that promotion, but you know how tough it’s been for you to take. All that extra time at the office, all that extra stress, and your immune system is so _delicate_.” 

Myra looks him over closely, and purses her lips with a soft sigh and a shake of her head. “You seem on the verge of keeling over. An extra dose of iron couldn’t hurt. Maybe we just need to give you a boost, Eddie-bear?” She holds out the box out to him, and gives it an enticing shake, as though trying to tempt a puppy with a treat.

Eddie stares at the pill caddy in her hand. He stares at Myra. 

He thinks of his friends, all assuring him that he is strong, and brave, and that they are better with him by their side.

His eyes turn back to the box, and he suddenly thinks of Bev handing him an iron railing with the words, _“It kills monsters, if you believe it does.”_

And then he gets to his feet, and takes the box from Myra, and drops it all into the trash.

“Myra,” he says, and forces a smile as gentle as he can muster. “Could you do me a favour, and not call me that anymore, please?”

She gapes at him. “Eddie!”

“Thank you.”

“No, Eddie – your medication – what are you doing!”

“I don’t need it,” he says patiently. He looks Myra over, taking in her wide, frantic eyes, and the scared downturn to her mouth, and suddenly hears Richie’s voice in his head. 

_“You’re just always the first person I want to talk to.”_

When did he last want to talk to Myra? When was the last time he wanted to open up to her? 

Hell, has he ever? 

He really can’t recall a time when that was the case.

Why is it that he will listen to Richie talk at four in the fucking morning without complaint, but Myra merely fussing over him for ten minutes sets his stomach churning?

He sighs as he runs his trembling hands through his hair. “Are you happy, Myra?” he asks tiredly, aware he’s being abrupt when she recoils.

“Am I – no! Eddie, you can’t just stop taking your medication! You need it!”

“Not about that,” he says, clinging onto his patience with his fingertips. He spreads his arms, to encompass the room, the house, their entire lives. “In general, I mean. Are you happy?”

She pauses, her eyes meeting his warily after she looks around. “What do you mean?”

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks. He sighs, softens his tone, and forces a smile as he adds, “Me. Am I what you wanted? Really? Somebody you feel like you need to look after? Somebody you have to worry about? Somebody who can’t have a bad night’s sleep without you thinking I’m at death’s door?”

He considers his own words, and suddenly finds himself wondering why the hell he bothered leaving Derry at all, if all he did when he got free was build a small-scale replica of it around himself.

Myra remains silent for a long time, her eyes fixed on him. Eventually, she sits opposite him, her hands flat on the table. They slip a little, damp with sweat, and her fingernails curl against the wood.

“Everybody wants something different to what they get,” she counters, and offers a tremulous smile. “That’s what life is about, isn’t it? Making the best of what you get.”

“And you think _this_ is the best we can do?”

“It’s… it’s okay, isn’t it? We have a good life, Eddie!”

Eddie smiles tightly in return. His stomach is twisting into knots, and a part of his brain is hammering against his skull, screaming that this is dangerous, that his lungs will start to tighten, that his life will fall apart if he starts down this road.

And yet his gaze is unwavering, and his breath comes as easily as if he had just taken a puff on his abandoned inhaler. 

“I don’t think I agree,” he says quietly. “I don’t think it has to be like this. I don’t… I don’t think it _should_ be like this. And I should have seen that a long, long time ago. I’m sorry.”

“Eddie,” she says, her voice trembling. “Eddie-bear – Eddie, what are you saying?”

He meets her gaze levelly across the table, and takes off his wedding ring. He sets it down carefully between them. The delicate clink it makes against the wood is deafening in the crushing silence. 

“I’m saying we have to be brave, Myra. We have to try to make our lives into what we want them to be. Or else what’s the fucking point?”

“Eddie… Please…”

“And I don’t want… I don’t want this. I don’t think I ever did. Did you?”

Myra inhales sharply. She forces a smile which looks more like a rictus. “You’re tired, Eddie-bear. You’re… You just need some rest. Why don’t you stay home today?”

Eddie drains his coffee, and gets to his feet. He leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. Her skin is damp beneath his lips and he realises, distantly, that she is crying. 

“I’m going to pack a bag,” he says gently. “And I’m going to find a hotel. I’ll let you know where I end up. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

***

He packs some clothes. He packs some toiletries. He gathers up his laptop, and his phone charger, and the few belongings he has long since moved into the guest room.

He leaves his medication in the trash, and gently closes the door behind him when he leaves.

Myra has not moved since he stood up. He cannot help but feel guilty, but he does not let it stop him from going.

He gets into the car, calls his boss, and briefly explains what’s going on. She is silent for a moment, before saying two things: “I’m so sorry to hear that,” followed by, “Good for you, Eddie.”

Apparently, he can take all the leave he needs. She’s very understanding of what he’s going through. He promises to contact her with updates, hangs up, and starts the car.

He has no idea where he’s going.

Eddie drives aimlessly for a while, allowing his head to empty as he functions on autopilot. He can hear shrieking at the back of his mind, in a voice which sounds like his mother’s, telling him that he’s making a mistake, that he’s putting himself in danger, that he _needs her, Eddie-bear…_

He drives, and breathes, and eventually, the voice quietens. It feels like a step forward. 

He’s not sure it will ever leave him entirely, but for the moment, at least, he can think.

When he spots a hotel, he pulls over without thinking, and books a room for a few days, with an option to extend his stay after that. It’s small, but clean enough to meet his standards, and the bed feels tolerably comfortable when he flops down onto it. 

He sits silently for a moment, staring blankly at beige walls, before he unlocks his phone, and sends a text to Beverly. _‘I just left my wife. What do I do now?’_

Forty-seven seconds later, his phone rings. He answers it mechanically. “Hi, Bev.”

“Oh my god, Eddie!” Her voice is hushed, and he can hear a watery mechanical swooshing behind her, which has him frowning in confusion. “Are you okay, honey?”

“Yes. I think so. Yes,” he says again, more certain of himself, though his own voice is quiet and his heart is pounding in his chest as the reality of the situation settles on him. There’s a faint brown stain on the wall, right at his eyeline, and his brain absently decides it is shaped like a turtle. 

Bev exhales softly. “Okay. Where are you?”

“I’m in a hotel. I just got here. I left… I left,” Eddie says helplessly. “I just left her, Bev.”

“Does…” Bev trails off, and Eddie realises after a moment that she is struggling to think of Myra’s name. He does not blame her; he has barely mentioned her to the group. He has not wanted to talk about her.

“Myra,” he supplies woodenly.

“Myra. Sorry. Right. Does Myra _know_?” Bev asks gently, and he laughs in return, sharp and sudden in the otherwise silent room.

“Yes. I told her… Well. She knew I was going. She watched me go.” 

His voice is quiet to his own ears, as though it is coming from far off. It is hard to keep his mind on his thoughts as he speaks. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, and he has to work to keep his breathing steady. A wheeze nevertheless plays around the edges of his words as he speaks. “She didn’t try to stop me, so I assume she knows it’s over.”

“Oh, Eddie,” Beverly breathes, and he can hear her sniffling softly. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”

Eddie swallows hard, and just breathes for a long moment. Eventually, the words burst from him. “Have I made a mistake, Bev?”

“No,” she says immediately. Her voice is not angry, nor raised, merely firm. When she speaks again, her tone is gentler. “No, I don’t think you have. You weren’t happy, were you? I know the signs, sweetheart. If nothing else, I know the signs of an unhappy marriage.”

“No. I wasn’t. I wasn’t happy. But what if…” He swallows, and closes his eyes as tears prick at them. “What if she… What if she’s the only person that could…”

“That could what, honey?” Beverly murmurs as he falls silent. 

He shakes his head, but forces the words out, feeling small and stupid and horribly alone. “That could put up with me. That could… could want me. What if she was the only one?”

“She’s not. Eddie, god, she’s… I can think of…” Beverly cuts herself off with a sigh, but it sounds more fond than anything else, and Eddie feels his thrumming heart slow a little. “I promise. I _promise_ there are so many people out there who would love to be with you.”

She speaks so quickly, as if she is absolutely certain of her response, and her vehemence leaves him reeling. 

He blinks. “Okay?”

“And even if there wasn’t, being alone isn’t so bad, you know,” she adds lightly. “Being your own person after not really being able to, it’s… it’s freeing. Or that’s what I think, anyway.”

His mother’s voice slinks back into the forefront of Eddie’s brain. _‘But she’s not alone,’_ , it whispers treacherously into his ear. _‘Beverly has Ben. Beverly is wanted. Beverly doesn’t need looking after like you do. Beverly is stronger than you.’_

“I killed a monster,” Eddie whispers fiercely, and isn’t even aware he’s said it out loud until Bev chuckles down the line.

“Yeah, you fucking did,” she grins. “You kicked the shit out of It, sweetheart. You were the one who figured out how we could take It down. If you can do that, you can damn well get through this, right?”

“Right,” he says, and forces himself to nod. He manages a facsimile of a smile when he glances at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. “Right.”

A thump echoes down the line, and Bev curses softly. The soft, wet woosh continues behind her. “What is that? Where are you?” Eddie asks, puzzled, and Bev laughs again.

“I’m in my laundry room,” she explains. “I ran in here when I saw your text. I was with Ben, and I wasn’t sure…”

Eddie winces. Of course. The two of them are pretty much a package deal these days. “You can tell him,” he says, after a mere second of thought. “Of course you can tell him. Don’t lie to him on my behalf. I’ll tell everyone else…” 

He trails off, and Beverly makes a soft noise of encouragement. “You can tell everyone as soon as you want to,” she urges when he remains silent, but Eddie shakes his head as he meets his own eyes in the mirror.

“Richie just had his gig,” he says weakly. “I don’t want to -”

“- Fuck that!” Bev interrupts furiously, her voice suddenly raising. He jumps, but she carries on. “What does that even matter?”

“I don’t want to steal his thunder.”

“Fuck his thunder! Eddie, honey, what are you saying?” Bev demands. “Richie of all people will want to know how you are! He’ll be -” 

She cuts herself off, and Eddie waits politely, but nothing is forthcoming. “Of all people?” he echoes, after a moment, and she coughs.

“He’ll want to know,” she says, instead of clarifying anything. “Honey, I promise, he will not give a shit if you tell everyone now. He really cares about you, Eddie. So much! He won’t think twice about his gig.”

“He should have his moment, though,” Eddie protests, and he sets his jaw. “He worked so hard for this. I don’t want to take it away from him. It can wait a little while, Bev.”

She sighs softly. “All right. All right, honey. Ben and I won’t tell anybody. But please don’t wait too long if Richie is the only reason you’re not saying anything, okay? I _promise_ he won’t care.”

“I know. I won’t,” Eddie mumbles, and sighs softly to himself. He feels suddenly exhausted, and the bed is becoming ever more tempting. “Bev, I… I think I’m gonna lie down, okay?”

“Sure thing, hon. Hey, Eddie, I’m proud of you, and I love you so much,” Bev says, and Eddie’s heart clenches. He smiles, and his eyes prickle all over again.

“I love you too, Bev. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye, honey.”

He texts Myra the name of his hotel, because he feels like he should. Then he plugs his phone in to charge and crawls into bed, where he falls asleep for a full three hours. 

When he wakes, fully-clothed and disoriented and tangled in the sheets, he finds a text from Ben waiting for him. _’You’re so brave and I love you. We’re here for anything you need, any time.’_

If he has a little cry, at least nobody else is there to see it.

***

Time passes strangely over the next few weeks.

Some moments seem to drag out into an eternity, like the time Eddie spends alone in the hotel restaurant for his first breakfast as a single man. 

He really cannot remember the last time he ate breakfast by himself. He has long since become used to the presence of Myra, making coffee and juice and preparing his pills, and filling the silence between them with idle conversation while he cooks for them. 

It had been comfortable, if nothing else. A warm and cosy trap he had long-since closed around himself.

Other times fly by more quickly than they have a right to. 

Eddie spends hours speaking to his lawyer, summoning the energy to go through page after page of documents as he begins divorce proceedings. It feels so hurried, and his brain spends half of its energy producing a residual sense of panic which, again, takes the form of his mother’s voice, whispering that this is a mistake and that he shouldn’t rush into this and that he’ll never cope on his own. 

He emerges from the meetings blinking and lost, wondering where the last few hours went when it feels as though he only walked in fifteen minutes ago. 

Still, he clings to encouraging moments through the cloying fog of self-doubt. Moments like his lawyer shaking his hand and smiling genuinely, assuring him that there was more than enough to ensure a seamless divorce, and that he was doing just fine with her questions. 

Bev and Ben offer to meet up with him multiple times, but with everything feeling as though it is exploding around him, Eddie politely declines. He promises to see them when he feels up to it, but explains that right now, he just wants to take some time for himself, between meetings with lawyers and court dates and house hunting.

They understand, of course. But they still text and call him multiple times a day, checking in to see how he is, and they still send him pictures of their adorable-if-slobbery dog, and stupid jokes they find online in the hope of making him crack up, and between them, they keep him going.

They mention nothing in the group chat, and he is so, so grateful that he has them. 

He makes an effort to catch up with everybody else, too. 

Eddie cannot help but feel that in his reluctance to mention anything about Myra, he has made a point not to ask how other people are doing, in the fear that they would turn the question back on him.

Now, left rattling restlessly around his hotel room, he finds himself longing to feel as though he is close to them.

So he texts them all. He’s not ready for calls, he thinks, not beyond Bev and Ben, but he makes a point of texting everybody else. 

He asks how they are, how their days are going, and what they’ve been up to. In return, he gets responses he knows they would all otherwise deem too unimportant or too dull to say in the group chat, details both trivial and unremarkable, but he holds it all close to his heart.

He pictures Bill, typing furiously at his laptop, working out his trauma in stories and hoping against hope that he’s cracked the ending this time. He has an eye test coming up soon, Eddie finds out, because Audra has been on his case about him spending more time writing than looking after himself, and he has to admit that he’s finding himself fighting headaches as he squints at his computer. He’s worrying that he’s going to end up reluctantly bespectacled. 

When Eddie unthinkingly replies that he thinks glasses are kind of attractive, actually, he gets a string of laughing emojis in response, and Bill admitting that his opinion doesn’t surprise him at all.

Eddie’s irritable response that Bill will get zero sympathy from him if he ends up in a pair of coke bottle spectacles because his eyes turn out to be just as shitty as the rest of him only begets more laughter. He writes the whole conversation off as a good job when a laughingly apologetic Bill seems to have cheered up about his situation.

He often scrolls back through the pictures Mike sends of his adventures around Florida; pictures which come thick and fast when Eddie assures him that he really can’t send too many. He is great with a camera, and Eddie would far rather experience the mugginess of Florida from behind a screen than have to deal with it in person.

The few pictures that feature Mike himself show him beaming, and looking younger than he had in Derry, with the stress he had carried with him melting into good cheer. Eddie smiles at the sight of him, and sends him statistics on alligator-related fatalities when Mike jokingly suggests the possibility of him wrestling one.

Stan, he knows, is spending as much of his time as possible birdwatching before the darker days really draw in. Eddie does not blame him; even now, even in his forties, Eddie is not keen on the dark, and he suspects he and Stan are quite similar in that regard. 

Stan is just as natural a photographer as Mike, though their subjects differ; while Mike favours landscapes and the occasional selfie, Stan is focused entirely on the subjects of his long hours in parks and fields and hedgerows. 

The most recent one he sends along shows what he refers to as a belted kingfisher, perched fussily on a branch above a lake, with its head sleepily tucked onto its breast. The setting sun has caught its feathers and it practically glows in the light, and Eddie can easily picture the satisfied grin Stan must have worn when he snapped it. 

The thought is a warm one.

And Richie… 

Eddie soon learns that Richie can be relied upon for a quick reply almost any time of the day or night. He cannot help but indulge himself in texting him when he realises as much.

He often texts Richie while he’s eating breakfast, frowning at his phone when Richie admits he only went to bed a few hours ago. Richie, he realises, does not get much sleep, which leaves Eddie worrying, but when he presses him on it, he is adamant that he doesn’t need it. 

He claims that all he needs to function is caffeine and a reliable schedule of prodding from his manager, who has at least stopped trying to talk Richie into going back to his ghost-writers and is, instead, making surprised-but-encouraging comments about the stand-up Richie is laboriously writing.

Richie sends him snippets of his work, now and then, and Eddie does his best to be brutally honest about it. He always seems appreciative of his criticism, even on the odd occasion when Eddie’s comments are less than positive. 

The distraction of it helps Eddie get through his own workdays, when he feels ready to start picking up clients again, though he restricts himself to working remotely for the moment. He doesn’t feel up to going in to the office, but getting back into the routine of working does help him feel more settled.

Eddie often turns to Richie for distraction after his meetings with lawyers, when he and Myra have sat awkwardly in a waiting room together and made hideous small talk about the weather before trying to divide up their lives as fairly as possible, and smiles in relief at the strings of stupid jokes he receives in return.

He also texts Richie while he’s house hunting, irritably ruling out places for reasons he knows most other people would consider trivial and petty, but which matter to _him_. 

He absently asks Richie what he would look for in an ideal home, and immediately receives a message stating, _’well first of all it would have you in it ;) ;) ;)’_. 

As Eddie stares in astonishment, his breath catching in his throat, it is quickly followed by a long musing about not actually recalling the circumstances under which he ended up in his house. Apparently, he’d been on something of a bender, and when he came to, he found he’d made a rash decision, and has been stuck with his too-big house ever since. 

Eddie tries his best not to worry about him, and, thinking sadly of him rattling around a large house on his own, pointedly stops considering anything larger than two-bedroom apartments. 

He finds what he thinks will be the perfect place for him just over a month in. 

It’s in the city, but in a quiet neighbourhood. It is close enough to his workplace that he could practically roll out of bed and be at work with little more than a hop and a skip, but it has well-reviewed restaurants and diners nearby, and a decent grocery store just down the block. It isn’t a traffic hotspot, and, from his careful googling, nobody seems to have died in the apartment. 

It is affordable, and it is available right now.

Eddie arranges a viewing, and is unsurprised to find that he loves it. Oh, sure, it’s small, and it definitely needs redecorating, but from the minute he steps inside, Eddie can feel it; that same tugging sensation that all seven of them occasionally get, telling them that this is it. That this is right, and that this is where they need to be.

Eddie has long-since stopped questioning that gut feeling. A little guidance is the least the world owes them, after what they’ve done for it. 

He asks about the possibility of renting the apartment and, to his complete lack of surprise, is accepted immediately. 

When he texts Bev and Ben to tell them about it, both immediately offer to help him move, which leaves him sniffling even while he grins at his phone. He accepts, and reluctantly calls Myra to explain he’ll be coming by this weekend to collect the rest of his stuff.

She sounds quiet, and as though she’s forcing back tears on the phone, but she doesn’t fight him. She hasn’t fought him at all, in fact, and their divorce is going through as uncontested. Eddie is doing his best to be gentle with her. 

She had loved him, in her own way, he thinks, and he had… gone along with it. As he always had.

He hopes she ends up happy. He thinks she probably deserves it.

Bev and Ben pick him up from his hotel in a hired van. He greets them with a wave, standing in the parking lot with his belongings shoved back into that single bag he left home with weeks ago. 

Bev scrambles her way out of the van as Ben is still pulling into the parking spot, and Eddie finds himself dragged into a tight hug with Beverly laughing in his ear. Only seconds later another pair of arms wrap around him from behind, and the three of them spin slowly in a circle in the parking lot as they grin like idiots. 

Eddie feels the weight on his shoulders dropping away as the two of them simultaneously press a kiss to each of his cheeks; Bev leaves a lipstick mark, and Ben’s bristly embrace tickles the edge of his scar. “You two think you’re too damn cute, don’t you?” he blusters, aware that he’s flushing, but he’s laughing too.

“We may think that,” Bev grins.

“Well, guess what?” Eddie huffs, and prods both in the shoulder. “You’re _right_ , and it’s pretty fucking galling.”

“Sorry, Eddie,” Ben laughs. He ducks his head sheepishly, and Eddie is astonished to see he’s flushing too. 

“Jesus, Ben! You’ve been dating her for months now! You aren’t over it yet?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” admits Ben, and Eddie and Bev both roll their eyes, but Bev shrugs sheepishly after a second.

“He’s very sweet,” she allows, before she looks Eddie over critically. 

He straightens anxiously beneath her gaze, wondering what she sees as her eyes rake over him – a forty-year-old pre-divorcee, who has ended up doing too much work from his hotel bed in the past few weeks, in clothes which are more wrinkled than he’d like despite his best efforts with a hotel iron – but she smiles in satisfaction after a moment. “You look good, Eddie.”

Ben’s arms wrap around him again, and Eddie feels him grin against the side of his face. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, and Eddie’s heart soars. “You ready to do this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I think,” he mumbles, but something doesn’t feel right. Something is missing.

He sighs as he realises what it is. 

“No,” he amends quickly as Bev is about to climb back into the van. Both face him and offer a quizzical look. “I… I need to do something first, I think.”

Ben looks puzzled, but there’s a knowing look on Bev’s face, and Eddie realises all over again that she’s always been able to figure them out. “You don’t have to,” she says, but he thinks she’s only doing so for the sake of it. She quietens when he shakes his head firmly.

“It’s been weeks,” he says quietly. “They deserve to know. I… I want them to know.”

“Oh,” Ben says, and his voice is soft. He reaches out to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder, and his smile is suddenly blinding. “Are you sure?”

Eddie nods, and suddenly smiles in return as an idea strikes. “Will you help me?”

“Sure.”

“Of course,” Bev adds, as easily as if they haven’t been single-handedly getting Eddie through this already. “What do you need, honey?”

Eddie pulls his phone out. “Just be in a picture with me? And I’ll go from there.”

They pose together, Eddie squished into the middle of another three-person hug, all of them smiling into the camera. Ben holds it up for him, and there is at least one shot where Eddie is not-so-subtly staring at his muscled biceps. 

There’s just something about them that draws his attention. It’s impressive, he supposes, that Ben has worked so hard to achieve such a physique. He finds he can’t stop his eyes from tracking helplessly back to Ben’s arms again and again.

He eventually receives an elbow to the ribs from Bev for his lack of subtlety, while Ben gives them both a nonplussed look. “Hey, I know you’re pretty much a free man now, but keep your hands off him, okay, hotshot?” Bev smirks, and Eddie’s blood runs cold.

He forces a grin which, he knows from the look on Bev’s suddenly regretful face, doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Ben merely rolls his eyes fondly, apparently noticing nothing amiss as he returns Eddie’s phone and takes his bag from him. Bev wolf-whistles as he moves away with it to put it in the back of the van, and he laughs in return, his attention suddenly on her.

“All I want is to get through one day without her ogling me,” he jokes. “Just one day! It’s not too much to ask, is it, Eddie?”

Eddie produces a strangled noise that nobody could mistake for a laugh, but Ben is already gone, and Bev’s cheerful expression melts away. 

“You’re okay,” she murmurs immediately, her voice low enough that nobody could overhear them. “Hey, listen, you’re okay, Eddie, right?”

“Right,” he whispers, and manages a shaky nod. He works on another smile, and feels the corners of his mouth protest as he overshoots it hideously. Bev frowns. “Bev, I… I’m not… I wouldn’t -”

“- You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to tell me,” Bev says quickly. She shakes her head and pushes her hair irritably back from her face. “Christ, it’s already barely any time since you left your wife, I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have said that, honey. I shouldn’t make jokes like that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine! No, it’s – it’s fine. Honestly! I can handle jokes,” Eddie claims, suddenly desperate to avoid any special treatment from her. Beverly is gentle, and kind, but she does not pull punches, and the idea of her having to handle him with kid gloves is awful. 

He shakes his head, settling both hands on her shoulders to squeeze softly, and manages something approaching a normal smile. “Bev, my best friend is Richie Tozier, remember? Of course I can handle jokes!”

Bev watches him for a second, before breaking into a small smile. “You’re stronger than any of us, Eddie. You can handle anything life throws your way. I know it.”

He blinks in astonishment. “Oh. Well. Thanks. I mean, that’s absolutely untrue, _you_ are... But, uh, thanks?”

“But you have the right to feel comfortable, and… not feel like you have to tell us… anything,” she adds, faltering as she talks. Eddie gives her a troubled look, his mouth already opening to say – what? He really isn’t sure – before she raises an eyebrow. “It’s all new, I know. Being single. Being more… yourself. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, honey. I won’t make jokes. I promise.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Eddie says slowly, but it’s a lie, and he has never known it as starkly as he does whilst looking into her perceptive gaze.

She smiles gently, and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek while hugging him tightly. “Nothing, honey,” she whispers against his ear, and he cannot help but cling in return. She holds him, and he shakes in her grasp, and squeezes his eyes shut tightly as he tries to slow the sudden thudding in his chest.

Bev thinks he’s…? Why the hell would she think that?

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to _think_.

For all she is assuring him that he doesn’t have to say anything, when it comes down to it, Eddie has no idea what he would tell her if she were to try to force him.

What is he? Hell, _who_ is he? He has no idea.

Eddie has always just been whoever he was told to be.

The idea occurs to him, abruptly, that maybe now he can change. That he is free to be whoever and whatever he wants.

Fuck. Even just the concept of it is enormous, and alarming.

And yet, somehow, it is also liberating.

He sighs shakily into Bev’s hair, and does his best to ignore the maelstrom of confusion whirling in his brain.

They hug until the crunch of footsteps tells them Ben is back, at which point he just lets out a soft noise. “We having a moment?” he asks, and opens his arms amiably to them.

Eddie laughs, and he and Bev step into the circle of his arms to hug him again. It feels terrifying, for a second. 

And then, as Ben tightens his arm around Eddie’s waist to pull him even closer, and Bev strokes a hand tenderly through his hair, it feels wonderful.

They love him. He knows it. No matter what he is, they love him.

The thought is freeing.

So maybe… maybe knowing that, he can actually start thinking about who he really is, one of these days.

***

Ben drives, and Bev puts the radio on while Eddie stares at his phone and drafts a series of messages to go with a picture of the three of them. He spends some time choosing to send a photograph first, aware that pictures are more likely to grab the attention of his friends.

He chooses one with all three of them caught mid-laugh, beaming into the lens and curled comfortably together, and eventually, after much thought, he takes a deep breath and sends the message out into the ether.

**Eddie:** _Look who I ran into today._

He keeps going as Bev and Ben’s phones ping, his teeth worrying his lower lip as he types, deletes, and re-types. His eyes occasionally glance up as new messages arrive in the meantime, showing that he has effectively reeled his friends in.

**Mike:** _Well isn’t that a lovely surprise!_

**Bill:** _Awesome! But oops, have I missed some occasion?_

**Stan:** _Not that I know of, Billy. Lovely picture. Are you all having fun?_

**Richie:** _oh man!! cute cuter and CUTEST together again at last!!! what’s going on?_

Eddie hears Bev snort, and read out the messages for the benefit of Ben, who glances sidelong at Eddie with a grin when Richie’s comment is announced, but it feels miles away. He focuses on typing, and refuses to look up until he is finished.

**Eddie:** _I have something to tell you guys. Firstly, I want to apologise for not telling the rest of you sooner. Please don’t think it’s because I don’t trust you or some bullshit like that. I just needed some time to get to grips with it all myself._

**Eddie:** _I’m getting a divorce. Bev and Ben are here today to help me move into my new place._

**Eddie:** _Before you worry, I promise I’m doing well. This was my idea, and it feels long overdue. I’m very happy, I promise._

**Eddie:** _Sorry to have kept it from you all._

He sets his phone down with a long, shaky exhale, at which point it practically explodes into messages. Bev laughs softly, and wraps her arms around him in a sidelong hug as he concentrates on keeping his breathing steady, while his eyes skip erratically over the sudden influx of texts.

**Richie:** _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

**Bill:** _Oh wow! Oh my god! Eddie! I’m so proud of you!_

**Richie:** _fuck!!!!!!! eds!!!!!!! jesus!!!!!!_

**Stan:** _I’m so glad you’re happy, Eddie. Congratulations. I’m proud of you too._

**Mike:** _This definitely wasn’t a message I was expecting to receive today! Wow! Well done, Eddie! So glad you’re doing okay buddy! You know where we all are if you need us, okay?_

**Richie:** _eddie :) you’re amazing :) you’re incredible :) so majestic :) bev or ben – one of you wonder twins please give eddie a hug from me right fucking NOW_

Bev’s arms tighten around Eddie as she reads, and he lets out a shaky laugh. It is the easiest thing in the world to lean into her hold and produce a watery smile when she snaps a quick selfie of the two of them. She sends it to the group as he relaxes against her, feeling so much better just for being held.

**Bev:** _I got him! you guys, you don’t know how brave he’s been. ben and I are incredibly proud of him!_

“Thank you,” Eddie mumbles to her as he reads her message. She chuckles, and unhands him to press a kiss to the top of his head. He sits upright and leans against the window as he starts typing once again.

**Eddie:** _Thank you so much, guys. You really don’t know how much this means to me._

**Bill:** _Mike is right as usual – anything you need, you know we’re here for you._

**Stan:** _Seconded. Day or night._

**Eddie:** _Thank you. Honestly, thank you all. I’m sorry to have kept it for you for so long._

**Richie:** _wait how long do you mean though? when did this all actually go down eds?_

Beside him, Bev breathes in slowly, but does not speak. Eddie’s teeth resume chewing his lower lip as he stares at Richie’s message, his stomach suddenly churning.

**Eddie:** _I left Myra just after your student gig. I didn’t want to steal your thunder by announcing it when you had just done so well. Sorry._

Eddie frowns as Beverly suddenly begins counting under her breath. When she reaches twenty-three, Eddie’s phone rings.

It’s Richie.

“Hello?”

“What the _fuck_ , Eddie!” All three wince as Richie’s shriek blasts through the speaker.

“Well, good fucking morning to you too,” Eddie mutters. He shrinks away from Bev to press himself against the window, staring at the fog of condensation building on it. “Remember, I’m here with Bev and Ben, so just fucking -”

“- As if they haven’t heard us yell at each other before! You think that’s gonna fucking make me go easy on you? Fuck, Eddie! You little shitstain!”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Eddie demands. He can feel a flush of heat flooding through him as Richie’s words wind him up, and his fingers tighten on his phone. Bev tenses beside him, and shifts closer to Ben, as though he could start flailing at any moment. 

“You heard me!”

“Yeah, I fucking heard you, asswipe! Come on, then, just fucking tell me! What is it, Richie? I already told you I’m sorry for keeping it from you, so what the fuck is your problem?”

“Oh, what the fuck _ever_ , asshole! You know that isn’t my fucking problem! You can tell me whatever you want, man, I’m not gonna demand you – you fucking – bare your soul to me, or whatever! You don’t have to tell me jack-fucking-shit if you don’t want to!”

Eddie winces as Richie snaps at him. He hears Richie speak in his head yet again, from the night before he mustered the courage to start all this; _“You’re just always the first person I want to talk to.”_

He drags his free hand through his hair, and then clenches it on his own thigh. “Richie,” he says, forcing himself to soften his tone. “I wanted to. I promise – I fuckin’ promise, man, of course I wanted to. Please don’t think I didn’t.”

“So why didn’t you, hmm?” Richie says, his voice irritatingly sing-song as he speaks. “C’mon. You already said it once. You might as well say it to my face.”

Eddie sets his jaw. “Because, asshole, it was right after you did your first gig in almost a year, and -”

“– Which was practically like _two fucking months ago_!”

“– Oh please, it was barely six weeks, _and_ it was a big fucking deal, and I didn’t want to take away from that!”

“A big fucking deal? Eddie, I made a coupla drunk students chuckle for an hour, man! I didn’t walk out on the love of my life! _That_ is a big fucking deal! You should’ve had some support for that, and you fucking -”

“- _She_ is not the love of my fucking life!” Eddie snaps in return, and the moment suddenly seems to crystallise around him. 

He can hear his own words reverberating between them, echoing down the phoneline and meeting Richie’s sudden startled silence in return. He can see the way Bev is staring at him, her hands clenched together tightly enough to turn white, but her lips set in a proud grin. He sees Ben’s eyes glancing sidelong at him, his mouth downturned the same way it always had when any of them argued. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, and forces himself to relax jittering muscles. “And I had support, Richie. I told Bev the same day I left. I promise.”

“Well. Good,” Richie manages after a moment, but Eddie can hear him blustering; reaching for the same reserve of anger and finding it wanting. He sighs, and Eddie hears him pacing before he says more quietly, “You shouldn’t have fucking done this, though.”

“Done _what_? Richie, your gig was important, okay? Everybody was so thrilled you did well, and I wanted you to have that for a while. You deserve it.”

“Okay, right, sure, which is like, so fucking sweet of you, Eduardo, do not get me wrong,” Richie says, and Eddie exhales some of his tension as he resorts to nicknames rather than insults. “But like, I’m serious, one gig does not outweigh… This was a big fucking deal, Eddie.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I _know_ , Richie. Believe me. I’m on the way to pick up all my stuff from Myra and move it into my new place right now. You think I don’t know how big this is?”

“So why would you deny yourself more support?” Richie asks, and god, he suddenly sounds exhausted. Eddie blinks in surprise. “It was just one gig, Eddie.”

“It mattered.”

“You matter more!”

Eddie ducks his head as Richie snaps in return, aware that tears are suddenly pricking at his eyes. His fingers tighten in his thigh and his eyes squeeze close as he trembles. “Richie,” he mumbles, and Richie sighs.

When he speaks again, his voice sounds muffled, as though his head is in his hands. “Christ, Eddie, please, okay? Don’t do shit like this again. Not over me. You think I want to be the reason you’re turning away help? You mean more to me than any fucking gig could. Please. You don’t have to tell _me_ \- you never have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but don’t… don’t let me get in the way like that again. You’re fucking killing me here, Eds.”

Eddie swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He jumps when he feels a soft touch on his hand, but Bev just chuckles lightly, and squeezes her hand over his in a way which grounds him, and he nods shakily at her. “All right. Yeah. Okay. I’m… I’m sorry, Richie.”

“Hey, no, you don’t – you don’t need to apologise, okay?” Richie laughs, his voice suddenly airy in a way Eddie doesn’t buy for a second. “Just, y’know, for future. If you suddenly get knocked up and want to tell everyone about it, but I’ve… fuck, I don’t know, I’ve sold the most cookies in my girl scout troupe that week, don’t feel like you have to hold back, y’know? That’s all I’m saying.”

“Rich,” Eddie says firmly, and steadies his voice as best he can. He stares unseeing at the condensation on the window, watching as two drops roll down it and merge when they meet. “I wanted to tell you. I promise. And you’ve… you’ve kept me going over the past few weeks, okay? Everyone has, even if you didn’t know you were doing it.” He laughs softly, and lets his head rest against the damp window. “Fuck, I never thought I’d say this, but you’ve kept me sane, man.”

Richie lets out a startled, strangled laugh, and Eddie grins in relief at the sound of it. “Eddie, baby, I never thought I’d hear you say _anything_ like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You realise what a blow this will be to my reputation, right? How can I carry on calling myself the world’s most irritating friend when my favourite target is accusing me of keeping him sane?”

“I’m not saying you haven’t driven me to distraction with your idiocy,” Eddie counters. “It’s just that you were distracting me from more shit than usual. That’s all. Don’t go thinking you haven’t been just as much of an enormous jerkwad as usual.”

“Oh! Well, okay then, I will rest easily tonight,” Richie claims, and Eddie lets the last of his tension drift away as he grins. “You okay, Spaghetti? Really?”

“I’m okay,” Eddie agrees, turning to smile at Bev and Ben. “Really. I promise. Honestly, I… I feel really good. I’m glad I’ve done this.”

“Hey, me too. I’m glad you’re happy, Eds. I’m, like, really fucking proud of you.”

“Yeah, well. Somebody told me a while ago that I’m braver than I think, and I’m finally listening to him,” Eddie drawls, and Richie laughs in his ear.

“Oh, really? Man, I don’t know. That guy sounds like an idiot. You really sure you should be listening to his advice? He seems pretty sketchy to me.”

“He is an idiot,” Eddie confirms, before grinning. “But he’s my favourite idiot, so who knows what that says about me.”

Richie is quiet for a moment, before he chuckles. “Hey, I should let you go. You got shit to do, right?”

“Right. Listen, Richie -”

“– Uh-uh. Can it. I’m not listening. It’s all done, baby. Nothin’ more to say.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Jackass.”

“You know it. Bye, Eddie. Let me know how today goes, okay? You know where I am if you need me. Uh, someone. If you need someone.”

“Sure thing. I’ll keep you up to date. I promise. Bye.”

Eddie stares out of the window in silence for a moment, suddenly awkward as Ben clears his throat and Bev shifts closer. He turns in his seat, meaning to break the silence, and technically he does so when Bev flicks him on the forehead. “Ow!”

“I fucking told you so,” she says simply, and laughs when Eddie scowls at her.

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Nobody likes a shithead, Bev.”

“I’m just saying -”

“– Hey, as much as I would love to listen to our second argument in a row,” Ben interrupts, a manic shine to his cheerful grin, “I’ve been driving in circles for, like, ten minutes now. Could you maybe give me directions, Eddie?”

Eddie and Bev both dissolve into laughter as Ben shoots them a desperate look, and they end up with Bev’s head resting on Eddie’s shoulder as he directs Ben to his – to _Myra’s_ house.

***

Myra manages only a quick, brittle smile when she answers the door, but she is polite to both Beverly and Ben when Eddie briefly introduces them, and offers to make coffee while they begin the unpacking process.

Beverly accepts gratefully, a kind smile dancing at her lips, and makes a point of making quiet conversation with her whenever they pass. Ben compliments the decor of every room they pass through, and asks Myra about her style inspirations. Startled, and initially quiet, she slowly begins to chat to them.

Eddie has never loved anybody as much as he loves Bev and Ben right now.

It does not take as long as Eddie had thought to pack everything he considers his, which is probably something of a sad indictment about the way he had been living. He had been afraid Myra might fight him for the sake of it, but though she’s withdrawn, and hovers around him as he packs, she has no objections to what he selects to take with him.

It probably helps that there is little he actually wants. 

He told her weeks ago that he plans to take the bed from the guest bedroom – the bed he has long since considered _his_ – and Myra, to his surprise, has prepared it for him. He finds it stripped of its bedclothes, with the same sheets and covers that he had been using when he left folded neatly atop it, freshly laundered and waiting for him. The duvet is bundled up, along with the pillows.

He stares, then turns his gaze on her when she realises he has noticed. She shrugs, tugs at the hem of her shirt, and mutters, “You get cold so easily, and your back needs the right support, so I didn’t want you going without them. That’s all.”

She turns on her heel, and walks off to loudly question Beverly about where she had found that adorable blouse she was wearing. Eddie allows her palpable astonishment at Beverly’s answer wash over him (“Wait… you’re _that_ Beverly Marsh?”) as he and Ben begin to manhandle the mattress out of the room.

Beverly and Ben wait in the van when they’re done, having bid goodbye to Myra with genuine smiles and a shake of her hand. Myra is still blinking in astonishment when Eddie pulls his jacket on.

“Ben designed that fancy BBC building,” she tells Eddie in a daze, as though he was the one meeting them for the first time, and he nods.

“He sure did. He’s very talented. Beverly too.”

“How do you _know_ these people?”

“I grew up with them. They’re my best friends,” Eddie says simply. He stands in the doorway, and offers Myra a small smile. “I’m glad you could meet some of them. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have kept them from you.”

They watch each other for a moment, before Myra sighs helplessly. “I feel like I don’t know you at all. I used to understand you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

She swallows. “But not since…”

“Since I went to my reunion,” Eddie finishes awkwardly. “I know. I changed.” An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he does not allow the words to escape him. 

He really is not sorry in the slightest for who he has become. For the person he has realised he can be.

She nods again, and slumps in place, her eyes on the floor. Eddie watches tears trickle down her cheeks for a moment, his stomach twisting, before he clears his throat.

“Goodbye, Myra.”

She does not reply. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, and exhales into the cool winter air.

Bev and Ben smile at him from the van. Eddie smiles in return, and joins them without looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie moves in.

The drive to his new apartment is less fraught with tension than their previous journey. Beverly cranks the radio, and Eddie is forced to listen to her and Ben belting out pop hits from their youth at the top of their warbling, out-of-tune voices.

But he joins in when _Africa_ comes on, because that song is a classic, and he won’t hear any shit about it. Especially not from the rest of their friends, all of whom go into hysterics when Bev shares the video she secretly films of them all singing along together. 

Eddie blasts them all for being talentless tone-deaf hacks, grinning the entire time he types, then secretly saves Bev’s video to his phone, because watching it back fills his chest with warmth. Then he goes back to directing Ben around town.

Ben takes his demands that they stop at a store to buy a decent vacuum and cleaning equipment with good grace, and waits patiently in the van while Eddie stocks up. He’s already anticipating unpacking being a dustier affair than he’d like, and he wants to be prepared.

Finally, with a bag full of cleaning supplies in his arms, he’s ready to show them his new place. 

“Don’t judge it too harshly, okay?” he asks as he unlocks the door, fumbling with the unfamiliar key. “Remember, this is New York City, and we’re not all celebrities. I can’t exactly afford a fucking penthouse, or whatever.”

He lets the two of them in, and watches nervously as they set down their boxes and take a quick look around. Bev offers an assessing noise and curls her lips into a teasing smile. “Hey, at least it’s bigger than our boat! And it’s way, way bigger than the place I lived when I first moved out here. And I had to share _that_ with three other girls!”

“I like it,” Ben offers, staring around with his hands on his hips and a smile on his face, and part of Eddie relaxes. 

“Jesus Christ, Ben, you don’t know how happy you just made me,” he admits.

“What?” Ben blinks. “What did I do?”

“You became an architect,” Eddie says pointedly. “Do you know how reassuring it is to hear that _you_ like this place?”

Bev grins proudly, and trails a hand over Ben’s shoulder. “God, I know, right? Seriously, sweetheart, you went and became an authority figure for stuff like this. We’re all going to take advantage of it, forever.” She boops his nose with her finger and grins.

“Oh.” Ben smiles happily, and shrugs. “Well, glad to help! It’s lovely, Eddie, seriously. The building’s got a really classic style, you’re in a nice area, the view is awesome… You’re going to redecorate, right?”

Eddie chuckles as they all look around themselves. The walls are all wallpapered, and while its greens and blues and oranges do not form the ugliest pattern in the world, it has definitely seen better days, and it is peeling and stained in places. “Yes, Ben,” Eddie says flatly. “It’s not exactly what I’d choose for myself.”

“I don’t know. It’s kinda funky,” Bev offers, trailing her fingers over the raised pattern.

“Do I seem like a ‘kinda funky’ guy, Bev?”

She cracks up, and shakes her head with a fond smile. “I suppose not, honey.”

“There you go, then. It’s at the top of my to-do list. It’ll take a while, I know,” he sighs, already dreading the work it’ll need. “But I... I want this place to feel like home, so. It’ll be worth it. Right?”

“Absolutely,” Bev echoes, and Ben nods.

“I’ll help,” he offers genuinely, and Eddie sees that same cheerful, well-meaning kid he always was shining through in his smile. “I can come over whenever I’m free and lend a hand, if you want.”

“That would be amazing,” Eddie grins in return, before he sighs, and gives one of the boxes of his stuff a nudge. “But one step at a time, I guess. I got shit to do before that.”

***

The three of them carefully and methodically bring all of the boxes up from the van, and their good cheer collectively fades as their spines begin to protest more and more. Finally, with all the boxes carted into his place, Ben and Eddie manhandle first the bed frame and then the mattress up several flights of stairs while Beverly supervises.

They all ignore the scattered boxes of belongings in favour of setting up Eddie’s bed. He picks the bedroom which looks out over the city, offering up a beautiful view of the city’s skyline. The sight of it has him frozen at the window for a few minutes, smiling to himself as he watches the first sunset in his new place.

They devote the last of their energy to ensuring Eddie will be able to sleep tonight; Ben battles with the fitted sheet, while Bev and Eddie tackle the duvet between them. When they’re done, and the bed stands ready before them, they all share a look, and flop down on top of it with a groan.

Eddie cannot recall the last time that being this close to somebody had not filled him with anxiety, but as they lie tangled together, with Bev’s head on his shoulder and Ben’s arm across his waist, he feels nothing but peace.

Well, and exhaustion, too. 

They’re all super tired after a long day and, when Bev wearily suggests that maybe the rest of the boxes can wait until tomorrow to be unpacked, Eddie agrees readily.

They order take-out, and cheer when the delivery guy arrives at his new address. The startled teenager who rings the buzzer does not seem to care about their explanation of him being the first to do so since Eddie moved in, but does at least seem to appreciate the large tip they offer. 

They eat sprawled on the floor of what will be his living room, and do their best to ignore the way their joints protest at the lack of proper seating.

Eddie sneakily snaps a picture of the three of them, grinning as he catches the other two unawares with their mouths full of food, and sends it to the group chat with an update.

**Eddie:** _First meal in the new place is going down pretty well! We’ve brought all my stuff here with no problem. I’ll start unpacking it all tomorrow, when I definitely won’t wake up with a bad back from carrying stuff up too many flights of stairs all day._

Beverly and Ben both look at their phones as they beep, and both laugh at the sight of themselves industriously shovelling noodles into their mouths while Eddie smirks into the camera. Bev snorts, and Ben cracks up when soda goes up her nose. 

“I did not sign off on that picture, Eddie!” she jokingly protests as Ben folds up into a giggling heap on the dusty brown carpet. “It’s hideous! I help you get your life together and this is the thanks I get?”

“Suck it, Marsh,” Eddie grins. “I didn’t agree to that video you posted. Live with the consequences!”

“That video was a delight!”

“It was a mess!”

“You’re a mess!”

“ _You’re_ the fucking mess!”

A notification pops up on their phones, and both Eddie and Beverly dissolve into laughter as they read it.

**Ben:** _If you can read this message, please send help. They won’t stop yelling at each other._

“You’re such a dork!” Bev cackles, and launches herself at Ben to poke him in the ribs. His giggles escalate, and he shrieks and tries to wriggle away. 

They end up with Bev draped on top of him as he curls into a ball on his side, tears leaking from his eyes as the two of them laugh together.

Eddie sends a picture of them to the group chat, because how could he resist?

***

As the evening goes on the group chat lights up with amusement at their antics, and further congratulations on his moving into the apartment, from everyone except Richie.

Eddie tries not to dwell on his absence as he finishes his meal with Beverly and Ben; it is Saturday night, after all. It’s hardly inconceivable that Richie has something better to do with his evening than text Eddie.

He sends Bev and Ben home before it gets too late, brushing off their offer to return tomorrow and help out some more. “Honestly, you’ve done enough,” he assures them as they hug goodbye. “I can handle it from here. I promise.”

They refuse to leave until he further promises to call if he decides he changes his mind, and once he rolls his eyes and does so, he finds himself alone in his new place for the first time. 

It’s a mess. There are boxes everywhere, and the whole place needs cleaning and redecorating, and he has very little furniture beyond his bed and a couple of folding chairs Ben and Bev have spared.

He loves it.

He hunts through the boxes until he finds the ones containing his toiletries and a towel, then jumps in the shower and luxuriates in the feeling of dust and sweat trickling away. 

Once he finally feels clean, he leaves the bathroom and, clad in only his towel, he repeats his search until he finds his pyjamas.

He’s just pulling on the silk shirt when his phone lights up. It’s a text from Richie, not to the group, but to Eddie alone.

**Richie:** _kinda late to the party i know but hey congrats on getting through today!_

**Richie:** _did it all go okay?_

Eddie sits cross-legged on his bed and smiles softly to himself, despite the way his back twinges. 

**Eddie:** _Yeah, it was fine. Still lots to do but nothing I can’t handle. I’ll get everything unpacked and then give the apartment a clean tomorrow._

**Richie:** _you already in bed or you wanna give me a quick tour?_

**Eddie:** _What are you talking about? Are you in the area??_

Eddie stares at his phone in confusion, until a facetime request pops up showing Richie’s squinting face. Eddie clicks on it, and Richie starts speaking immediately.

“Of course I’m not in the area, Eddie Spaghetti! What kind of a dumb question is that? Don’t you know that if I was even within one hundred miles of you that I’d be getting under your feet and accidentally breaking all your shit right fucking now?”

“That does sound like you,” Eddie laughs. 

He squints at Richie, his eyes analysing him as best they can through the small screen. He’s sprawled on a couch, head tilted back with his phone held up above him, and he’s wearing one of his familiar ratty shirts unbuttoned over a black t-shirt. His hair looks tangled, and kind of greasy, and those dark bags beneath his eyes are still present. 

He frowns. “You look like shit,” he says, seeing no point in being polite about it, and Richie’s face scrunches into a laugh.

“Hey, gimme a break, okay? I just got in from a gig. Shit, don’t freak out about it, okay?” he warns quickly, as Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Another one? Richie! That’s -”

“- Hey! Listen! No, shut up, Eds, I mean it! It’s not worth talking about,” Richie groans. A hand rises to card through his curls, catching on a messy knot and leaving him wincing as Eddie pointedly rolls his eyes.

“Oh, whatever, dipshit! Just because I -”

“- No, nope, it’s not even anything to do with that bullshit you pulled,” protests Richie. “I swear, Eddie, it’s just… just a gig. Just my job.”

“And how many fucking times do I have to tell you that I care about it before you’ll get it through your thick goddamn skull?” Eddie snaps, and Richie falls silent. 

Eddie scowls back at him and watches Richie shuffle around on his couch, with one foot bouncing restlessly on the floor, judging from the repetitive thudding Eddie can hear. He sighs as Richie squirms, and deliberately softens his tone. “Seriously, Rich. Tell me what you’re up to, will you? I don’t care if it was playing to eight people in a coffee shop. I still want to hear.”

“Jeez, Eddie, pushy much?” Richie mutters, but Eddie can see the smile he’s trying to hide, and his faux-scowl melts away in seconds. When he speaks, he has summoned a Voice they all thought of as The Colonel, and he tugs fussily at an imaginary necktie as his voice drops into a scratchy Southern drawl. “Okay, well, it is not why I called, but if you _will_ twist my arm and force little ol’ me to talk about myself, which you know I am always much too shy to favour -”

“- Jesus fucking Christ, you dramatic son of a bitch, would you get to the goddamn point already -”

“- It was in a comedy club,” Richie explains, dropping the Voice in favour of his own, and immediately sounding less certain of himself. “I’ve… I’ve been doing some spots there for a few weeks now. No big deal, just trying out my new material, y’know?”

“Wait, you have a regular slot at a comedy club?” Eddie cannot help but beam.

Richie half-shrugs in return, but there is a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Cool your jets, man. Scale down whatever you’re picturing.”

“I usually picture you living in a dumpster and performing for racoons,” Eddie says drily, and rejoices in the startled shriek of laughter he teases from Richie. There has always been something amazing about managing to get Richie to laugh.

“Okay! Well, I guess, just this one time, maybe scale it up a bit.”

“So how did this come about?”

“Oh, it’s all nepotism, baby. A guy I used to see on the circuit way back when just opened his own place and asked me if I wanted a spot. You gotta know people to get by in this town, Eddie baby.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s brow wrinkles. He’d been under the impression that Richie’s name had been mud on the comedy circuit since his disastrous last gig, and his subsequent withdrawal from various contracts. “Did your manager pull some strings, or something?”

Richie laughs again, softer this time, and shakes his head. His lank hair falls into his eyes, and Eddie suddenly pictures himself reaching out to push it back for him, and telling him with a scowl that he should take a damn shower already. 

He clears his throat in surprise, as his fingers tingle at the phantom sensation, and forces his mind back to reality as Richie explains. “Uh, no, actually. He reached out to me, if you can believe that. I didn’t even have to get down on my knees for him!”

Eddie blinks. Then he blinks again. 

And then he pinches his thigh painfully, where Richie cannot see, as a treacherous flush of warmth swirls low in his belly, then begins to curl its way through his body, crackling along his nerves and leaving him flushed and half-hard.

God, what the hell is going on with him? 

Eddie has never been the most sexual of people, but he has needs, like anybody else. It must be much, _much_ too long since he indulged himself in meeting those needs, if he’s reacting like _this_ to Richie making one of his stupid jokes.

Richie, thank god, remains unaware as Eddie’s face heats up in embarrassment. 

He scoots forward and crosses his legs tightly, and wills himself to calm down. It proves just enough to get himself under control, and he finds he can turn his attention back to Richie as he keeps talking. 

“God, it’s so stupid. Somebody who was in the audience at that student gig recorded my set and put it on YouTube, which, like, does intellectual property infringement mean nothing to these dickholes? But whatever, it’s up there, and it hasn’t exactly gone viral, but it made enough waves for this guy I know to have seen it. And I guess he liked what he saw enough that he reached out to see if I wanted to perform at his place for a while.”

“Oh, shit, that’s awesome,” breathes Eddie, and he could not stop the smile that is spreading across his face if he wanted to. There is a heated rush of pride blooming through him, spreading out from his chest until he’s practically overflowing with it, and he beams as Richie returns his grin with a small quirk of his lips. He seems oddly quiet, and Eddie can’t help but prod at him. “Richie, you should be patting yourself on the back, man! This is amazing!”

“I’ve got better places to pat than my back,” Richie says, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it as he ducks his head and toys with the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know. It’s not exactly television specials. I mean, it should feel like a step down, right? It’s just this little club downtown, not exactly something to write home about. But…” 

Eddie waits him out, arching an eyebrow encouragingly as Richie glances at him, and he is spared a shy smile. “But doing this actually feels better than doing the specials did. Isn’t that fucking stupid? It’s just some tiny, shitty club, and it’s not like it’s paying the big bucks, but god, it feels fucking awesome, Eds. It’s all my own material every gig, like, nobody’s looking it over and telling me that it’s awful and I should fucking forget about it, and it’s landing well. Like, really well. Like, I can’t fucking believe how well, y’know? People are coming back week after week – they were actually lining up outside tonight, can you believe that?”

“Of course I can,” Eddie snorts, and he means it. “The stuff you’ve shown me was great, man! Like, mostly, at least!”

Richie bursts into laughter then nods sagely. “That’s right, Eduardo, don’t let my head get too big. I must remain humble.”

“You’ve always been an egotistical monster. And you have that fivehead, if you want to take that literally,” Eddie snorts, and relishes the way Richie giggles in return. “So you’re enjoying yourself, then?”

“Yeah. God, yeah. I’m writing every day, and trying to cobble it all together into a longer show, and my manager is fucking creaming himself over it all. I feel like I’m actually back in his good books now. He’s been reading over my material, and he’s come to watch me a few times, and he’s talking about where we can go from here in terms of, like, maybe a tour? Not soon,” Richie stresses as Eddie lets out an impressed noise. “Don’t get your hopes up. But when I can get, like, ninety minutes worth of really good shit written, we can start trying it out as a longer show and see where we go from there. And I’m not… I’m not actually that far away from hitting ninety minutes.”

“Shit, Richie, that’s awesome,” breathes Eddie. He can’t help but smile at Richie as he speaks, his heart thrumming with pride for him. “Man, I’m so glad. I’m so happy for you.”

“He’s also talking about maybe getting ahead of the curve and getting me to do some interviews about… y’know. Everything,” Richie sighs, suddenly deflating.

Eddie winces. “Ah, shit. That sounds like it’ll suck.”

“Right? He keeps telling me it’ll be cathartic and that maybe I’ll be able to move on past it and all that bullshit,” Richie huffs. “It’ll suck! It’ll plain ol’ suck balls and dick.”

Eddie nods, then shrugs tightly. “It sounds like a good idea, though,” he suggests, and laughs at Richie’s bug-eyed expression of betrayal.

“Fuck, et tu, Eduardo? Really?”

“Really! Look, I’m not the only one who can be brave, all right?” Eddie says pointedly. “If I can leave my goddamn wife you can probably face chatting to some smarmy dick in a suit.”

“What the hell would I even tell them?” Richie whines, and Eddie’s eyes roll immediately.

“Yeah, jeez, it definitely isn’t like anything interesting has happened to you in the last year,” he drawls. 

He holds his fingers up and counts them off as Richie scowls in return. “Let’s pull a Bill and think about the story. The way you’ve told it already, you managed to overcome fucking years of amnesia that nobody even knew about, and because of that you remembered being terrorised by a goddamn serial killer when you were a kid. Then you found out that the same serial killer was active in your hometown again, right before you went back home to see your childhood friends, many of which have turned out to be celebrities. You actually saved one of your friends from that fucking serial killer, and lived to fire the ghost-writers that, again, nobody even knew you were using, and then you started writing your own material. People will eat it up, Rich!”

“They won’t give a single shit!” Richie protests. “All they’ll see is the idiot who couldn’t even write his own jokes! A loser who bombed his last gig and then came crawling back months later! They don’t want to hear about me!”

“Of course they will! This is all really fascinating stuff! You fucking killed a guy!” 

“Jesus Christ, Eddie,” Richie blusters, his eyes widening to even more ridiculous proportions behind his glasses. “I mean, _yeah_ , but that’s not something I’m going around advertising! It’s a miracle I’m not rotting in jail right now!”

“You did it to save Mike,” Eddie reminds him firmly. “Castle doctrine, right? Even the shittiest police recognise justified use of violence.”

“Hell, _especially_ the shittiest police. I’m just lucky I’m white. If I was anything else there’s no fucking way they’d stretch ‘burying an axe in the back of someone’s head when they don’t even know you’re there’ into being justified.”

“Rich, he was a psychopath and a murderer. You did the right thing.”

“The _right thing_? I fucking killed him!”

“And he deserved it! C’mon, man,” Eddie snaps, one hand waving incredulously through the air. “You can’t tell me you feel bad about taking _Bowers_ out?”

“Taking him – I’m not a freaking hitman, Eddie!”

“We’re talking about Henry Bowers, man! He might not have been a fucking space clown, but he was still an actual monster! Even way back when – remember him torturing Ben when we were kids?”

Richie nods tightly. “He almost ended up wearing his intestines as a scarf right before we met him. Yeah, I remember.”

“And that’s not even the worst he did then, man! He tried to kill Mike, remember? When we were going to kill It the first time? He tried to blow his fucking brains out!”

“Y’know what, Eddie, I actually remember every damn second of what we did in crystal-clear 4K detail, and I already spend more than enough time reliving it, so -”

“- And that was just when he was a kid! I read the police report, man, he killed, like, at least three people getting out of that detention centre. He was seconds away from killing Mike, and I bet he thought he _had_ killed me -”

“- Is there a reason we’re re-hashing this?” Richie blurts, and his voice sounds high and panicked, and Eddie suddenly realises that his breaths are coming fast and hard. “Or do you just get off on freaking me out?”

“I – no, I’m – sorry, Rich,” Eddie says, falling back against his headboard as shame prickles through his gut. He watches miserably as Richie wrenches his glasses off and presses a trembling hand over his eyes, pulling his knees up to hug them to his chest and hide behind him. “Hey, it’s all right. I promise. It’s all over now, Richie. It’s all okay. I’m sorry, man. Just breathe, okay? Deep breath in, hold it, longer breath out. I know you know how to do that. You did it with me often enough.”

“It’s fine,” Richie mumbles after a long moment, when his erratic breathing has settled with Eddie’s instructions. He wipes his eyes, and flashes Eddie a bright grin he doesn’t buy for a moment. He suddenly thinks back to those few times he saw Richie breaking down in the clubhouse, and feels no less helpless in the face of it all. “All better, Eddie baby.”

“Sorry,” Eddie mutters again, looking shamefacedly at Richie through his lashes, unable to meet his gaze head on. Richie squints suspiciously, fumbles to get his glasses back into place, and then flaps dismissively at the screen.

“Put those fucking eyes away, Kaspbrak! You know I can’t deal with them! Do you _want_ me to start crying?”

“You’re already crying, dipshit,” Eddie tries, and sighs in relief when Richie lets out a watery laugh.

“Yeah, yeah. Point it out so everyone knows, why don’t you!”

“Everyone? It’s only me and you!”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have to freaking talk about it, okay? What were you even saying all that shit for?” Richie asks, his brow furrowing tiredly. “You did have a point, right?”

“I did,” Eddie says, keeping his voice quiet and levelling a serious look at Richie. “My point is that everyone in Derry knows what a terrible person Bowers was. Hell, his dad _was_ a cop, and Bowers killed him too. Nobody on that force wanted to prosecute you. And even if they had, no jury would ever have convicted you.”

“So you’re just cool with me being a big ol’ murderer, huh?”

“Oh, fuck off, Richie. You’re not a goddamn murderer. You saved Mike,” Eddie says firmly. “I don’t give a shit about how you did it. You saved him and that’s all that matters. I’m just glad they kept your name out of the press.”

“Yeah, well, same,” Richie mutters. “No, thanks. Not the kind of publicity I need.”

“Uh-huh. But you know what is? Actually explaining to your fans why you disappeared, and what’s happened to you since.”

“Jesus, Eddie!”

“Just think about it, okay? You have so much you could talk about, even leaving out all the shit about the clown, and Bowers! And if getting it out of the way now means that this tour of yours might go a little easier…”

Richie rolls his eyes, and then buries his face in his hand and groans loudly. “All right, fuck! All right. I’ll think about it, Eds, jeez. Maybe… maybe when I actually have a show ready to tour, I’ll talk to somebody. But only ‘cause it’s you asking, baby.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie mutters as he feels a flush dusting his cheeks. It seems he’s much too tired to deal with Richie’s faux-flattery without reacting ridiculously.

He really will have to put aside some time to deal with those, uh, _needs_.

He clears his throat, and soldiers on. “Whatever. Listen, didn’t you call for a guided tour of this place, or something?”

“Oh!” Richie jumps upright in his own house, suddenly all smiles. “You’re goddamn right I did! Will you show me around, Eddie? I want to see, like, your space!”

“It’s barely even my space at all, man. Right now it’s all boxes and tacky wallpaper I need to tear down.”

“But it’s your space enough that you chose to move in, am I right?”

Eddie nods, groans as various joints twinge, and levers himself upright. “All right. But you can’t judge me for what it looks like right now. I couldn’t keep living in that hotel while I redecorated. I wanted to get settled here first.”

“Man, I have lived in my house for, like, five years or something, and I haven’t decorated once,” Richie says dismissively. “I just kept whatever the last people to own this place had on the walls. Their furniture, too. I have no high ground here.”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles as he pulls his slippers on. “I hope you had it all cleaned before you used it.”

“C’mon. Look in your heart. You know the answer to that question, Eds.”

“You’re disgusting. So, wait, you’re just living in a place with other people’s style?”

“I guess. I wouldn’t exactly call it style.”

“But it’s _your_ house. You haven’t changed it to be how you want it?”

Richie shrugs. He flops back down onto the sofa and squirms until he’s lying stretched out across it, one arm pillowing his head. “I put up some posters a few years back.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Doesn’t sound very homey.”

“I guess it’s not,” Richie says simply. He smiles suddenly, and waves a hand in an imperious gesture as he launches into his British Guy Voice. “Now come along, Edward! I was promised a tour, and a tour I shall have! Lay on, Macduff!”

“Lay yourself.”

“I do! Nightly! Daily! Much too regularly!” Richie grins, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

Eddie gives him the finger before he flips his camera, giving Richie a view of the room around him. He spins slowly in place as Richie watches with interest, and Eddie sees his eyebrows rise when he sees Eddie’s bed. “Oh, speaking of laying – this is where the magic happens, huh?”

“What magic? I _just_ left my wife!”

“That was weeks ago now! Time for some rebound fun!” Richie laughs. “Especially if Bev has been your coach through all of this! You’re behind the schedule, Eddie-baby. You should’ve been all over somebody you always – all over Ben by now, right?”

Eddie blinks in confusion, thrown by Richie’s sudden correction. “What?”

“Y’know. Doing what Bev did,” Richie explains, his words suddenly coming a mile a minute. His fingers tighten in his own hair, tugging erratically as he grins too-wide at his phone. “Falling into the arms of her childhood love. You should be, like, climbing him like the sexy tree he is. I don’t know how you’ve resisted this long. Hell, I don’t know how anybody could. Especially after seeing him lift stuff all day, right? Don’t even tell me that wasn’t _delicious_ to see.”

Eddie frowns. He shifts in place as his skin prickles with the sudden rush of discomfort washing over him, panicked thoughts bouncing around his skull. 

He thinks of Bev’s knowing kindness, and the tight way she held him, and feels a writhing nausea overtake his stomach as he wonders what Richie is implying.

If this is a joke, it is the least funny one Richie has ever told. 

“I’m… sure he’s very handsome, to some, but Ben is not my childhood love,” he says carefully, suddenly very, very glad Richie cannot see the way the colour has drained from his face. “And I’m pretty sure Bev has had his heart forever.”

“Oh, c’mon, Eds, Benny-boy’s just the example here. Because of Bev. Because Bev left her husband, and then shacked up with Ben, and _then_ got divorced. You’ve messed the order up, if anything!” Richie rambles rapidly, and his mouth is spread into a frantic grin which does not reach his eyes.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m not… I didn’t leave Myra _for_ someone. Just for myself.” 

He watches Richie blink, apparently surprised. The rictus grin slides off his face. “Oh. I… huh. Really?”

“What? What do you mean? Yes, really. Why would you think otherwise? I never said anything about anybody else. There’s never been anybody else. Only Myra,” Eddie says flatly, already cringing in preparation against the barrage of insults he is sure Richie is about to throw at him.

But to his astonishment, Richie falls silent. When Eddie glances at the screen, he sees him staring straight ahead, his eyes open wide. “You’ve never dated anybody else?”

Eddie sighs. “I went on a few dates here and there. None of them ever led to anything much. And then Myra was hired by the company I was working for at the time, and that was that. What’s it to you anyway, Romeo?” he jabs, pointedly swinging the phone away from his bed and half-heartedly giving him a peek into the hallway. “Is this where you brag about the list of girlfriends as long as your wang?”

Richie stares blankly for a while. He opens his mouth. Then he closes it, and shrugs tightly. His eyes fix on something to the side of the lens. “Sorry to disappoint you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie frowns. “What?”

“Firstly, my wang is not as impressive as thirteen-year-old me would have you think, believe it or not.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Richie.”

“Secondly, I’m not… I don’t really… date. Apart from the beautiful, sadly departed Mrs Kaspbrak, of course,” he allows, and Eddie scowls.

“Fuck you, man.”

“Ah, if I close my eyes I can almost pretend she’s still with us,” Richie sighs, and Eddie damn near growls.

“Look, if you just want to fucking joke about it, then whatever, asshole! We don’t have to talk about your fucking love-life if you don’t want to tell me about it. Just don’t go assuming I’ve thrown my entire life upside down for somebody else, okay?”

“Right, okay, yeah. Sorry. I just…” Richie trails off, and Eddie sees him bite his lip for a moment, before he says lightly, “You said Myra wasn’t the love of your life.”

“So what? She’s not.”

“But you’ve never dated anybody else?”

Eddie’s stomach swoops, and then clenches tightly. 

Fear floods him, and his words become tight and fast as he snaps. “No. So what? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? My marriage was garbage, I know that much! I don’t have to be in love with somebody else to know I had to get out! I’m not a _complete_ fuck-up!” 

He breaks off, near-panting, and scowls at Richie, who looks chagrined despite not even being able to see Eddie’s face.

“No, I – I know. God, I’m sorry, Eds. I didn’t mean… I just thought that you sounded so sure, and…”

“And what, asshole?” Eddie snarls.

Richie smiles, so quickly that it vanishes almost before Eddie can see it. There is a look in his eyes that Eddie does not understand. “I thought maybe you’d found someone who makes you happy. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Eddie deflates abruptly, the panic draining away and leaving him suddenly exhausted. 

He drops back down onto his bed and rests his head in his hand, suddenly so glad that Richie cannot see him.

“Not that you need anybody! I’m just glad you left at all, honestly. Hell, you don’t need a reason beyond just wanting to. That’s the best reason to do anything, right?”

“Right,” Eddie murmurs quietly. “Fuck. Sorry, Rich. I shouldn’t have gone down your throat like that.”

“There’s better things for you to do with my throat,” Richie agrees with a serene smile. Eddie flips the camera back onto himself just so Richie can take in the full force of his unimpressed scowl. “Hey, it’s fine. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s okay.”

“But don’t lose hope, right?” Richie says lightly. “I’m sure there’s tons of ladies out there who’d be glad to give you a whirl. A handsome little stud like you will have your pick of ‘em whenever you’re ready. You could have any girl you want.”

Eddie feels like he’s frozen for a second, long enough for Richie to aim a concerned look at him. 

He pictures the way Bev had looked at him earlier that day, as she assured him he did not have to tell her anything he wasn’t ready to. Remembers the denial he could not even fully force out.

Christ. He’s such a mess.

He forces a hollow smile after a moment, as Richie peers at him. “Right. Sure. Any… any girl I want.”

Silence falls for a moment, and Eddie is just about to desperately plead tiredness and make his excuses to beg off the rest of the tour, when Richie stifles a yawn. “Jesus. Hey, Eds, I know I asked you to show me around, but I should probably…”

“Sure. Right. No, yeah, you should get some sleep,” Eddie agrees, and takes a moment to really look at Richie. His eyes are half-lidded, and the circles beneath them seem starker for his being in dim light. He looks as though he has not slept in weeks, and concern worms its way through Eddie’s discomfort. “Hey, I’m serious. You really look out of it, man.”

“I feel it,” Richie admits, and Eddie suspects that he had not actually meant to do so when he sighs. He summons up a smile, and waves lazily at the camera. “Congratulations again, Spaghetti. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Same,” Eddie offers. “Keep writing, okay? And send it my way, if you want. I… I really like reading it.”

Richie’s eyebrows raise, and he smiles softly. “Hey, sure. Night, Eddie.”

“Night, Rich.”

Eddie sits where he is for a moment, the silence suddenly rattling around the room. He does some breathing exercises for a while, trying to quieten his thoughts, and then forces himself to get up and get ready for bed.

He has been lying in bed for fifteen minutes or so, tossing and turning and getting used to the unfamiliar sounds of his apartment settling, when a thought occurs. 

It’s probably nothing. It’s probably just his anxiety again, pulling things apart unnecessarily to strip them down to the starkest possible worries. He’s always niggled at little details, and left himself worn out by issues that did not even exist.

But after ten minutes of trying to convince himself that he’s just overreacting, as usual, he sighs, and reaches for his phone.

He blearily punches out a text, squinting into the light from his phone and certain that if he does not ask now, he will have forgotten to do so by the time tomorrow rolls around.

It really, genuinely, is likely to be nothing at all. But right now, it feels important, and something in his gut suggests that if he forgets to ask, he will regret it, eventually.

**Eddie:** _What did you mean when you said you spend more than enough time reliving what we did?_

**Richie:** _wow you just can’t get enough of me huh_

Eddie scowls at his phone, and is just about to set it back on the floor, when another message comes through.

**Richie:** _i just get nightmares is all i meant. nothing to worry about_

**Eddie:** _Still?_

**Richie:** _don’t you?_

**Eddie:** _Sometimes, but not enough that I look half-dead all the time. I’ve had less as time goes on. Yours aren’t getting better?_

**Richie:** _define better_

**Eddie:** _Less frequent? Less vivid?_

**Richie:** _that’d be a big fat no from me then_

Eddie’s brows draw together in a sympathetic frown. At least the dark circles around his eyes make sense now.

**Eddie:** _Shit, that sucks. Sorry. Maybe they’ll get better as we move further away from what happened?_

**Richie:** _sure as fuck hope so my man_

**Eddie:** _Want to talk about them?_

**Richie:** _Nope_

**Eddie:** _I mean it. Any time you need to._

**Richie:** _no offense eddie but if you knew what you were offering i don’t think you’d offer at all_

Eddie glowers as indignance rears up inside him, and sends a message back before he can stop himself. 

**Eddie:** _Fuck you! I’m not some delicate flower who can’t handle it!_

**Richie:** _no i know_

**Richie:** _sorry eds that’s not what i mean at all_

**Richie:** _i just really genuinely don’t want to talk about it. i don’t want to think about it more than i have to. it’s some bad shit._

**Richie:** _and i definitely don’t want to pile it all onto you if you’re lucky enough to not be getting them so bad any more_

**Eddie:** _Okay. Just so long as you know that if you change your mind, I’ll always listen._

**Eddie:** _Or I’m sure any of the others would be willing to listen if you needed them to._

Eddie stares back at his words and tries to ignore the way his heart has sunk. It is stupid to feel rejected by Richie when he has no obligation to open up to him, but he cannot help but feel slighted. 

He assumes from the prolonged silence that follows that the conversation has ended, but eventually, Richie replies.

**Richie:** _you know what eddie you might just be onto something there. i’ll think about it. i promise_

**Richie:** _now go the fuck to sleep! all those boxes won’t unpack themselves tomorrow_

**Eddie:** _I hate it when you have a good point. Night, Richie._

**Richie:** _night night eddie spaghetti x_

Eddie hesitates for a few long seconds, before carefully sending a kiss in return. When he finally manages to sleep, it is unsettled, and he wakes with a start to the blaring of his alarm.

But at least he does not dream. He hopes Richie was spared them last night too. 

He really does seem tired.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Losers decide to meet up soon, and some friendly teasing goes awry.

Time keeps slipping on.

Eddie settles into his new life with a palpable sense of relief. He feels lighter, his spirits rising with every day that passes. He talks himself into going back to the office for work, pleased to be able to walk rather than having to endure traffic, and finds himself welcomed back with open arms. 

And also with quite a few not-so-subtle requests for gossip about his divorce, but his good cheer never wavers for long, and he takes great joy in being equally unsubtle in his refusal to talk about it. 

He exercises, and takes respite in the release of endorphins that accompany every gym session. He mentions that he’s thinking about taking up jogging to Ben, who talks him into becoming his running buddy. Bev then cajoles him into joining her yoga class. 

She posts a pic of the two of them post-session in the group chat, both clad in lycra and flushed with sweat, and briefly blocks Richie from the chat when he responds with, _‘looking stylish bev! EDDIE SEND NUDES’_

At least he was already flushed before he even saw Richie’s message.

He starts to become more experimental as he cooks, too, expanding his repertoire into foods he had allowed himself to be convinced he was allergic to, albeit never without the presence of an epi-pen, because he’s not an idiot. 

One day he makes himself a grilled cheese with real butter, a mix of full-fat cheeses, and the first white bread he has allowed himself for years, and rhapsodises about it in the group chat for much too long. 

The next day, after a prolonged silence, Stan asks, _‘Is it safe to un-mute this now, or has Eddie still not shut up about his goddamn cheese sandwich?’_

Eddie responds with a picture of his middle finger, but he cannot stop himself from laughing every time he re-reads it.

He launches himself into redecorating, too, leaning on Ben for help whenever he’s free. He is determined to make this place into something he can really consider his own as soon as possible.

His thoughts keep straying to Richie, living in a house too big for one person, surrounded by the memories of the last people to live there. 

Whose life is Richie actually living, he wonders. His heart aches at the thought.

He and Ben strip the wallpaper together over the course of a weekend, a job which leaves them both grimy and aching, but they get through it by singing along to a radio station playing songs from their youth. Both of them are appalled to hear these described as ‘oldies’. 

At one point, when they have been working for hours and they’re both exhausted and the end is still nowhere in sight, Ben abruptly throws down his scraper. He strides over to the radio, turns it up to a truly ear-splitting volume, and launches into a frenetic and uncoordinated dance routine which lasts for the entirety of _Good Vibrations_ by _Marky-Mark and the Fun Bunch_. The end result is Eddie lying on the floor and sobbing with laughter. 

He manages to record some of it, and posts it unrepentantly in the group chat despite Ben’s breathless, wheezing requests for him to have mercy. 

It brings about just as much delighted teasing as Eddie had hoped, but when Mike – always sympathetic, always reasonable Mike – takes pity and responds with a video of himself doing _The Electric Slide_ around a hotel room without a trace of self-consciousness, suddenly everyone else gets on board. 

His friends are idiots, and Eddie loves them so much.

Eddie and Ben take a break to watch Bill dramatically lip-synch along to _Nothing Compares 2 U_ , clad in a black turtleneck so stupidly small on him that it has to belong to his wife. He gets through quite a chunk of the song without cracking up, until the moment a giggly Audra bursts into shot with a bottle of eye drops to apply a single tear to Bill’s cheek, to match the one trickling down Sinead’s face. He manages only a few more words before he dissolves into gasps of laughter.

Eddie’s heart clenches at the sight of him pulling her close to him before the video ends abruptly. He wonders what happened after that.

Since Eddie announced his divorce, Bill has been texting him privately more often. He has opened up to him about the marriage counselling sessions he and Audra have been attending. 

Eddie is not sure where the two of them will end up, but he’s been keeping his fingers crossed for them ever since. He just wants them to be happy, whatever that means.

Shortly after, Bev sends a video of herself draped in huge swathes of fabric, doing her best impression of Kate Bush in _Running Up That Hill_. It ends with her standing on the edge of the material and falling flat on her face, her phone skidding across the room and recording the ceiling until Bev crawls back into shot, laughing and red-faced and seemingly unhurt despite her spill.

Eventually, as she, Bill, and Mike demand offerings from everyone else, Ben manages to persuade Eddie that as the instigator and, frankly, as his bully, he has a duty to join in. He pleads and pouts and encourages, and does not let up until a grumbling Eddie has levered himself to his feet and grabbed his wallpaper scraper to use as a mic. 

After a second of thought, he grins, summons all the confidence he has ever had, and launches into an intense rendition of _Forever Young_ , singing directly into the camera of Ben’s phone as Ben does his best not to let his laughter interfere too much.

To Eddie’s relief his offering goes down well, and the chat turns to focusing their peer pressure onto Richie and Stan, both of whom have been quiet throughout.

They realise the reason behind Richie’s silence when he sends a video along some hours later. Eddie loads it up on his phone and he and Ben watch together, Ben’s chin comfortably resting on Eddie’s shoulder and his hair filled with plaster dust. 

The camera shows Richie on stage at what must be the comedy club he’s been performing at, filming him from the otherwise empty audience seats, with his back turned towards them. After a moment, music kicks in, and Richie turns clutching the mic and gyrating ridiculously to the opening of _Friday I’m In Love_. 

Eddie and Ben both laugh when they see his face; he has removed his glasses and forced his hair into even more of a mess than it usually is, his dark curls practically standing on end in a scruffy halo around his head. He has clumsily applied bright red lipstick to his mouth, with a liberal amount smeared across his teeth, and a heavy coat of black eyeliner circles his eyes.

He looks utterly ridiculous, and yet Eddie’s giggles die off abruptly as whoever is behind the camera approaches him, and Richie looks directly into the camera to start singing. “I don’t care if Monday’s blue, Tuesday’s grey and Wednesday too, Thursday I don’t care about you, it’s Friday, I’m in love.” 

His voice isn’t the best, being more prone to cracking than could really be called ‘good’, but Eddie is entranced. With Richie singing directly into the camera, it all feels stupidly personal.

As though Richie is only singing to him.

The words fill the room as the mic amplifies him, and Eddie watches fixedly as Richie sways around the stage, affecting a dreamy expression but belting out the lyrics as though he means them with all of his heart. “Monday you can fall apart, Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart, oh, Thursday doesn’t even start, it’s Friday, I’m in love.”

Eddie feels as though he could be seated in one of the empty seats before Richie. He cannot tear his eyes from him as he twirls over the stage, doing a decent impression of Robert Smith’s dancing, if not his singing. 

He watches Richie dramatically fling his arm out in time to the music, and can suddenly see years back in his mind’s eye; he sees Richie and himself dancing to the same song in Eddie’s room, the music initially turned low so his mom would not hear, but the two of them ended up cranking the volume and singing along at the top of their voices, egged on by each other’s enthusiasm. 

He remembers Richie grabbing his hands and spinning him around wildly until Eddie almost crashed into the wall, only to be dragged back at the last second by a hand on his shoulder. Richie’s hand shifted to hold Eddie’s, hot and damp with sweat, and Eddie turned just in time for Richie to sing, “You can never get enough, enough of this stuff, it’s Friday, I’m in love!” inches from his face.

The air between them felt weirdly charged as they both panted, pulses racing beneath the other’s touch, and they stared openly into each other’s eyes for a second – and then Eddie’s mom banged furiously on his door and shrieked at them to turn that noise down before Eddie damaged his hearing, and the two of them scrambled apart as though scalded. 

They burst into startled giggles a moment later, still wild-eyed and flushed, and turned the music down just enough to appease his mother. 

Neither mentioned the moment again.

Eddie sucks in a surprised breath as the memory rushes over him, feeling his heart pounding all over again at the force of it. 

He wonders if Richie remembers that day, and finds himself flushing.

He wonders why he picked this song.

Eddie fixedly watches Richie flail his way around the stage, his voice warbling but confident, and just has time to think _’how well can he see without his glasses?’_ before Richie loses track of whoever is behind the camera and crashes into them.

Ben bursts into laughter close to his ear, and Eddie startles back to himself, suddenly aware that he has been staring open-mouthed for too long.

He forces a grin as Richie folds up into laughter and takes his phone back. “Stan’s turn!” he says with relish, then he runs his tongue obnoxiously around the bright red of his lips, winks, and cuts the recording.

Eddie reaches out in a daze to save the video to his phone, not thinking about the fact that Ben is still watching his screen, and realises belatedly that he has completely ignored him as he spoke. 

Ben chuckles against his ear, having watched him save Richie’s, and only Richie’s, video. 

Eddie clears his throat, and shoves his phone into his pocket before turning to face Ben, hideously aware of the flush to his cheeks. “What?”

Ben just smiles at him for a moment. “I _said_ , there’s no way Stan will do this.” His grin widens as he looks at Eddie’s pink cheeks, and he adds in what he no doubt thinks is an innocent tone, “It’s warm in here, huh?”

It definitely isn’t. They’ve kept the heating off precisely because neither wants to overheat with their exertion, and the weather outside has kept up a steady stream of freezing rain. Ben’s wearing a hoodie, for god’s sake. 

“Sure is,” Eddie grinds out, hands on his hips as he dares Ben to disagree. 

Ben relents with a chuckle, making no further comment, but he does oh-so-helpfully open the window to let an icy breeze in. Eddie tolerates it for as long as he can before he slams it shut with a scowl, ignoring Ben’s swallowed gasp of laughter.

Still, it’s hard to be embarrassed around Ben, who returns to work without further teasing and begins to sing along to The Spice Girls completely unironically. He’s word-perfect. It is stupidly endearing.

They work until late in the evening, and Ben is just about to head home when the group chat pings with a message from Stan. It’s a video.

“No way. He won’t have done it,” Ben says again, a dubious expression on his face as Eddie shares a look with him and sets it playing. “Not Stan. Surely not Stan!”

The video shows a neat living room, softly lit, with a figure filmed from behind as they sit hunched over on a couch. A woman speaks, and Eddie recognises Patty’s voice as she softly says, “Stan.”

“No.” The figure shifts to look over its shoulder, and Eddie sees Stan scowling lightly. “What are you doing? Put that down. I already told you no.”

“C’mon, honey,” Patty pleads. She approaches, and Stan rolls his eyes, and turns back to face the front. Patty circles around him, and Eddie sees that he’s sitting in front of a partially completed jigsaw puzzle. His jaw tightens as she approaches to hover beside him, but his eyes remain focused on the puzzle. “Stan, please!”

“No.”

“It’ll be fun,” she says, and her tone is closer to wheedling now. Stan sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose in a gesture Eddie has seen a thousand times. 

“Patty, please. Will you drop this already? It’s been hours.”

“It’s just one quick video, Stanley! It’ll only take five minutes.”

“You can record me all you like,” he says evenly, and his eyes slide sidelong to the phone with a grimace. “But I already told you I’m not doing it.”

“But all your friends did!”

“And they’re all idiots. I love them,” Stan nods. He scans the puzzle, and methodically places a piece in the centre with a satisfying click. “But that doesn’t mean I have to do everything they do.”

“C’mon, sweetheart, just lighten up a bit,” Patty sighs. “Please? I’m sure they’d love it.”

“I’m sure they would.”

Patty makes a disgruntled noise, and drops down to sit beside him. The camera remains focused on his face. “Fine. Whatever. Disappoint your friends, then. I just don’t understand you, Stanley.”

“There’s nothing to understand!” Stan protests. He sighs, removes his glasses, and massages his temples with one hand. 

After a second, he turns to face the camera, wearing a frustrated expression, before his eyes drop to his lap. He reaches out to twine his fingers with Patty’s free hand, and mumbles, eyes downcast, “I’m sorry, honey. Listen, I… I just had a very long day today, and… I… just want to tell you how I’m feeling.”

“You can,” Patty says softly. “You can tell me anything, Stan. You know that. Tell me, so I can understand.”

Stan nods. “Gotta make you understand,” he says with a heavy sigh, and Eddie’s eyebrows rise in sudden recognition a second before music kicks in. 

Stan’s eyes dart up to meet the camera, and he grins wickedly as he sings along. “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you.”

Patty promptly launches into giggles. Stan reaches out to take the camera from her with gentle hands, and leans against her side to get the both of them in frame, grinning cheesily as he keeps singing over her laughter. “Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. This was so stupid,” Patty laughs, and Stan grins at her, letting out a soft laugh of his own.

“They deserve it,” he smirks. He turns to press a kiss to her cheek, and Eddie hears him murmur, “Thank you for putting up with me,” before the video cuts out.

“Oh my god,” breathes Ben, who looks close to shell-shocked. “Did he just… did Stanley just Rickroll us?”

“He fucking Rickrolled us!” Eddie snorts, and that’s it; the two of them are officially caught in another giggle fit.

***

It is midway through February, and he has almost finished furnishing and decorating the entire apartment, when Eddie’s divorce is finalised. 

He stares dumbly at the papers for a while, seated at his kitchen table as his eyes skim over them without really taking in any of the details, before he sets them down.

He remembers, distantly, Bev giving him a bottle of whiskey a while ago. He hunts it out, pours himself a glass, and drains it completely. Then he pours himself another and drinks it while reading through the document, relishing the grounding sensation of the smoky burn as it coats his mouth.

When he finishes reading, he slowly sips his drink, staring absently out of the window. The sun is setting, and it sets the New York skyline ablaze in a splash of orange and yellow which spills into deep blue.

When the sky has faded completely into darkness, he takes his phone and snaps a picture of the documents. He sends them to the group chat, and pours himself another drink to down as the chat explodes.

 **Bev:** _omg congratulations!!_

 **Richie:** _fucking FINALLY!!!! glad you’re done with all that shit eds! enjoy being a free man!_

 **Ben:** _Congratulations Eddie! <3_

 **Bill:** _Fantastic! Well done for getting through it!_

 **Stan:** _Yes, well done, Eddie. I hope you’re celebrating. You deserve it._

 **Mike:** _Amazing news! I’m so glad it’s finally finished, Eddie. It must have been incredibly draining to go through. How are you feeling?_

Eddie smiles at his phone, his chest filling with warmth at their congratulations, then considers Mike’s question. 

His eyes stray to the whiskey as he debates refilling his glass, then he forces himself to get up and put it away. He can already feel the heat from his previous drinks spreading through him. 

Getting drunk alone is probably not a great plan for his first night as an officially single man.

 **Eddie:** _I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet. Which I realise is stupid, because it’s been months since I started all this._

 **Mike:** _That’s not stupid. It’s completely understandable. You’ve been through a lot to get to this point. I’m sure it’ll take a while before it feels real._

 **Stan:** _You’re not feeling any regrets, are you, Eddie?_

 **Eddie:** _None at all._

He lets out a sigh of relief as he re-reads his own message and realises that he means it completely. Sure, the process has been stressful and anxiety-ridden, despite how relatively smoothly it has gone, and sure, he’s not thrilled to find himself divorced and alone in his forties.

But he’s happy. God, is he happy.

 **Eddie:** _I’m so glad I did this. And I’m so so glad I had you all there to support me throughout it. I could not have done this without you._

 **Ben:** _We love you, Eddie!_

 **Bev:** _so much!_

 **Bill:** _Don’t think this being officially over means we’re not still here for you if you need us!_

 **Mike:** _Bill is right, we’ve all got your back for anything you need. And Ben is right too – we love you!_

 **Stan:** _Absolutely._

 **Richie:** _yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah – i love you too eddie like x 1000 – but GUYS as sweet/gross as all this talk of feelings is i’m pretty sure what edward spaghedward needs is a CELEBRATION!!!!!_

 **Stan:** _Is that not exactly what I just said? “I hope you’re celebrating.” I’m sure I just said it._

 **Bev:** _you’re just so full of good ideas that they can’t help catching on stan!_

 **Stan:** _Is this what it means to be an “influencer”?_

 **Bev:** _oh my god. stan is talking about being an influencer. this is the best day of MY life, never mind eddie’s!_

 **Ben:** _XD_

 **Richie:** _PARTY_

 **Richie:** _CELEBRATION_

 **Richie:** _A CRAZY SHINDIG_

 **Richie:** _EDDIE DESERVES IT_

 **Richie:** _I DECREE IT_

 **Richie:** _LET’S FUCKING DO IT_

 **Mike:** _What a great idea Stan had!_

 **Stan:** _Thank you, Michael._

 **Richie:** _look whatever we all know stan is the best ok it doesn’t need repeating. i mean it! we should plan a party for all of us right? eddie deserves it!_

 **Eddie:** _That’s really nice idea but honestly you don’t have to put yourselves out for me._

 **Bill:** _Come on Eddie, getting together for a party is not exactly a hardship!_

 **Bev:** _yeah seriously eddie we should live it up!_

 **Eddie:** _Nothing has really changed, you know. It’s just a piece of paper._

 **Stan:** _I disagree, but whatever you want, Eddie._

 **Richie:** _oh come on!!!! eddie baby you deserve a super fun crazy party!_

 **Ben:** _You really do Eddie!_

 **Richie:** _like the biggest one ever!! come on! how many times are you going to get divorced!!_

 **Eddie:** _Hopefully just once. It’s not a big deal, guys._

 **Richie:** _it’s enormous!! we HAVE to celebrate! and it’s been way way way too long since we were all in the same room._

 **Mike:** _Richie is right._

 **Stan:** _Even a stopped clock, etc. Seriously, I don’t want to force you, Eddie, but I do agree with Richie._

 **Mike:** _Same! I miss you all! You know, thinking about it, Richie’s birthday is coming up soon. What if we got together to celebrate that instead, Eddie?_

Eddie frowns thoughtfully. 

The idea of having everyone focus on him is something which leaves him feeling awkward and anxious, his fingers tightening on his phone at the thought of all eyes being turned to him, but his friends have a point, and he knows it.

This _is_ a big deal, no matter how much he tries to minimise it, and he really does miss them.

He stares at the screen for a moment, and feels something within him relent at the idea of being close to his friends, where he belongs.

 **Eddie:** _I suppose it would be a shame not to celebrate him managing to make it through another year._

 **Ben:** _YAY! :)_

 **Bill:** _Great idea Mike! You’re a genius!_

 **Mike:** _Finally, a little recognition!_

 **Bev:** _Are we really doing this? Are we getting the Losers Club back together?_

 **Eddie:** _I would really like that, you guys._

 **Stan:** _Excellent idea, Mike. So where do we do this?_

 **Richie:** _my birthday my place right?_

 **Bill:** _Yeah, definitely, let’s go to Richie’s._

 **Stan:** _Are you both saying that because it means you won’t have to travel?_

 **Bill:** _You can’t prove that._

 **Richie:** _shut up stan_

 **Mike:** _Haha! Well, I’ve never seen California. It’d be nice to cross that off the list. Are you sure you want us descending on you, Rich?_

 **Richie:** _yeah sure! i have tons of room and you rubes should see hollywood at least once in your lives_

 **Bev:** _hollywood is an overrated pile of garbage and you know it trashmouth, but if it means i get to see you all, and more importantly, that ben and i don’t have to host…_

 **Ben:** _Ignore that, we would genuinely love to have you all at our place, but we can do that another time! I would love to see Hollywood!_

 **Bill:** _You’ll hate it Benny. Why do you think I spend so much time away from it?_

**Stan:** _If you’re sure, Rich, then I’d be happy to see what kind of condition your house is in._

**Richie:** _i immediately regret my offer_

 **Eddie:** _Good point Stanley. Let’s all go shame Richie for his filth._

 **Richie:** _oooh yeah that’s the stuff everyone talk dirty to me yeahhhh_

 **Stan:** _BEEP BEEP RICHARD._

 **Mike:** _So we’re agreed, then? We’ll go to see Richie for his birthday? Maybe for a long weekend if everyone can swing it?_

 **Richie:** _sure the longer the better, as eddie’s mom used to tell me nightly. i have room enough for all of you don’t worry about hotels and shit like that. one rule though – NO GIFTS. just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean i want you carting stuff across the country for me. please let me continue not to acknowledge my age_

 **Eddie:** _God forbid you actually grow up at any point, you manchild. Fine. No gifts._

Richie responds with an emoji blowing him a kiss, and the chat quiets down for a while. Beverly sends Eddie a message arranging for him to travel with her and Ben, and they all book their flights and send the details along to everyone else. 

Eddie glances at his divorce papers again, and this time, he finds a broad smile spreading across his face. It’s all over. He’s free, and before too long he’s going to hang out with the best people he’s ever been lucky enough to know.

Life is good.

***

Richie’s birthday lands mid-week. In the interests of the few of them with nine-to-five jobs not having to use up all their vacation time, the group decides to postpone the trip until the following weekend. They’ll fly in on Friday afternoon, live it up for the weekend, and up sticks back to their various homes late on Sunday evening to get the maximum possible time together.

None of them are actually saying that it still won’t feel like long enough, but Eddie is pretty sure they’re all thinking it.

The day of Richie’s birthday, well-wishes flood their group chat thick and fast. Eddie sends his own along and glances at the chat every so often while he works, but does not actually pick up his phone again until Richie responds.

 **Richie:** _hey thanks guys! i’m so excited about you all coming to see me that i kind of forgot my birthday is actually today_

 **Richie:** _stupid i know_

 **Stan:** _Perhaps. But sweet._

 **Richie:** _aww Stanley <3 is your gift being nice to me today?_

 **Stan:** _I distinctly recall you not wanting us to give you any gifts, but sure, I suppose so. But only that one time. Treasure it._

 **Richie:** _i will press your words to my sadly ample moobs and cherish them forever_

 **Bev:** _so how are you celebrating today richie? do you have lots of fun things planned?_

Eddie frowns softly when a picture arrives from Richie seconds later; it shows his laptop, balanced on a coffee table amid a scattering of empty soda cans and packets of chips. The screen is displaying a document titled, “Ideas For Show” and the words “BE FUNNY???” typed beneath it in an enormous font.

It’s amusing, sure, but it also seems pretty stark.

 **Bev:** _oh come on Richie! it’s your birthday! you have to live it up honey! you should be having some fun today!_

A second picture arrives a moment later. It shows the same scene, only Richie has placed a glass full of what seems to be whiskey beside his laptop, and has propped a cheerful paper hat on the corner of the screen.

 **Richie:** _better?_

 **Bev:** _i… suppose so?_

 **Ben:** _Isn’t is 8:30am for you right now Rich?_

 **Richie:** _jesus fucking christ – it’s a joke i promise, i haven’t had a liquid breakfast in forever_

 **Bill:** _Don’t worry, Bev, I’m taking him out for dinner tonight. I’ll make sure he has some fun. Richie, I know it’s short notice but Audra has to cancel. Sorry. She’s busy. It’ll just be me and you._

 **Richie:** _aww that’s a shame Billy but no probs_

 **Richie:** _tell her I said hi. but i’m sure the two of us can find some way of passing the time together ;)_

 **Bill:** _Cool._

 **Mike:** _Everything okay, Bill?_

 **Bill:** _Just fine Mike._

Eddie’s brows wrinkle as the chat dies down, leaving Bill’s message hovering awkwardly on its own. He wonders just how well those marriage counselling sessions are going.

But he doesn’t want to push, not when he knows Bill is seeing Richie tonight. Hopefully, if he needs to talk, he’ll open up to Richie. He knows the two of them have been seeing each other more often recently, now that Bill is back in L.A. after wrapping the filming on his latest book adaptation. 

Still, he resolves to find a moment to pull him aside for a private catch-up when they’re all together this weekend. He would hate to think Big Bill was struggling.

Speaking of… He opens his contacts to send a private message to Richie.

 **Eddie:** _You okay man?_

 **Richie:** _oh god not you too eds_

 **Richie:** _this bodes so badly for my show if i can’t even make the people who know me better than literally anybody else laugh_

 **Richie:** _i’m fine eddie I promise_

 **Richie:** _i know it was a shitty joke but i was too tired to think of a better one_

 **Richie:** _i appreciate all of you mother hens but that was just a joke i promise. my birthday just means jack shit to me. i love where bevvie’s heart is at re: partying but i’m just planning to write all day until billy boy picks me up_

 **Richie:** _the party don’t start until the rest of the losers walk in y’know?_

 **Eddie:** _Okay. As long as you’re doing well. You’re too tired to think of jokes though? Never thought I’d see the day where a joke wasn’t your go-to response to every situation. How did you sleep last night?_

 **Richie:** _same as usual_

 **Eddie:** _Sorry, man._

 **Richie:** _don’t worry your pretty little head about me eddie_

 **Richie:** _maybe worry about billy instead? ouch, amirite?_

 **Eddie:** _Yeah, I wondered if it was just me thinking he seems off. Whatever’s happened with Audra sounds shitty. Do me a favour and make sure he’s all right tonight?_

 **Richie:** _mission accepted_

Eddie’s smart enough to recognise a demand for a change of subject when he sees one, but he’s willing to acquiesce. Richie’s still getting nightmares, and it sucks, but he’s sure they’ll start to fade sooner or later, just like his own have. 

Besides, Richie has made his desire not to talk to Eddie about it all pretty clear. He’s not going to force the issue if his help isn’t actually wanted. 

He goes back to his work, and tries his best not to fixate on the mental states of his friends. 

He does not raise his head again until later that afternoon, when he hears raised voices outside of his office. 

There’s a vending machine there, which has always irritated Eddie – not only because it provides the constant temptation to indulge in sugary snacks, but because people often end up congregating in front of it for idle conversations, which always end up disturbing him.

He sighs, and rolls away from his desk just far enough to look through the door, hoping to shoo whoever is bickering away. He forces a tight smile when he sees two of his co-workers gathered outside of his door, one poking the other in the chest indignantly with what seems to be a Reese’s NutRageous bar.

“I’m telling you, he wasn’t!”

“He was!”

“I have seen that movie so many times, there’s no way! I would remember him!”

“He _is_! He’s the king!”

“Colin Firth is the king!”

“The _other_ king! The one who’s kind of a dick!”

“Guys,” Eddie says firmly. “I’m trying to work here, okay? Can you move this along somewhere?”

But as soon as they become aware of his presence, the woman with the chocolate bar whirls to point at him. “Edward! You’re an intelligent man!”

“Oh, come on, Kirsten, you can’t drag somebody else into this,” the guy groans. 

“Have you seen _The King’s Speech_?” she demands, and Eddie gapes at them for a second, before shaking his head. 

“Uh, no. Look, I need to finish this by today -”

“- God dammit!” she cries, throwing her hands heavenward. She prods the guy in the chest with her chocolate bar again. Eddie wonders, as his mouth starts to water, when he had last eaten peanut butter, and tries to stop his eyes from tracking the movement of the snack. “This idiot keeps saying I’m wrong about Guy Pearce being in it!”

“I’m telling you, I love that movie!” the guy protests. “I would know!”

“But clearly you don’t, Sean!”

“Guys,” Eddie says again, sharpening his tone. “Whatever, okay? Why don’t you just go check on IMDB, or something, just get away from -”

“- Brilliant idea!” Kirsten stalks past both men and approaches Eddie’s desk, leaving him blinking in surprise before scooting after her on his chair, feeling ridiculous.

“Hey, I didn’t mean here! Use your own office!” he protests, but she has already pulled up the internet and loaded up IMDB.

“Now we’ll see,” she mutters, and begins typing into the search bar, but Eddie is not watching that; his eyes are drawn to the ‘Born Today’ section, where he sees Richie’s face looking back at him with an awkward smile.

Huh. It shouldn’t feel strange. Richie is a public figure, and Eddie knows he had a handful of bit parts in various crude comedies before Mike called them back to Derry. Of course he has an IMDB page. He’s well-known enough that it shouldn’t be surprising to see it. 

It’s just that Eddie’s never considered it before.

“I told you!” He is startled back to himself by Kirsten’s triumphant cry. “King Edward!”

“Shit,” Sean murmurs, looking astonished. He walks past Eddie to peer the screen. “Well, I’ll be damned. That guy is a goddamn chameleon. I would’ve sworn that wasn’t him.”

“Well, it is,” she smirks in return, and Eddie gets to his feet.

“Okay, cool, mystery solved, now _please_ take this elsewhere!” he snaps.

Silence falls for a moment, before the two exchange a glance. Kirsten hides a smile. “Okay, Eddie, jeez.”

“Sorry, bud. Didn’t mean to intrude,” Sean says, sheepishly scratching his head.

“Maybe you need this more than I do. Your blood sugar must be dropping,” adds Kirsten, and sets the Reese’s bar down on his desk. She flashes him a smile and walks off, muttering something beneath her breath at Sean as he follows.

Eddie pointedly closes the door behind him, and resolves to write another email asking if the location of the vending machine can please be changed.

He tries to get back to work, but it is no good; his curiosity has been piqued. 

He loads IMDB back up with a sigh, and clicks on Richie’s face.

After a minute or so of scrolling, his brows draw together, and he gives the screen an indignant look. “What the fuck?” he mumbles to himself, feeling a growing sense of astonished outrage in his gut, and reaches instinctively for his phone. 

He debates between the group chat and their private texts, before deciding Richie needs to be named and shamed as publicly as possible.

 **Eddie:** _So Richie how often would you say you add to your own IMDB entry?_

 **Richie:** _i don’t know what you’re talking about but it sounds dirty. you kiss your mother with that mouth?_

 **Eddie:** _Ha ha. Answer the question!_

 **Richie:** _would if i could eds. IMDB? what is that??_

**Eddie:** _Oh for fuck’s sake. You can play innocent all you want, but I know it was you! There’s some shit on here that cannot possibly be true! You’re just trying to fucking troll everyone, aren’t you!_

**Richie:** _guys help me out here. normally i have a pretty good idea how i’ve fucked up but i swear this time i’m clueless. what did i do?_

 **Ben:** _It means “internet movie database” Richie! It’s not dirty._

 **Ben:** _Well, I mean, I suppose there are probably some pretty adult titles on there, if you go looking for them._

 **Richie:** _interesting! and how often do you go looking for them my handscome man?_

 **Ben:** _Okay well I’m out of this conversation! Bye!_

**Bev:** _hahahaha!!!_

**Mike:** _You definitely know about IMDB, Rich. It’s an online list of actors and directors etc and all the work they’ve been involved with. Writers too – I know Bill is on there._

 **Richie:** _oh is THAT what my manager keeps talking about? cool thanks mike i have been pretending to know what he means for years now_

 **Mike:** _You’re welcome, Richie. What’s the problem, Eddie?_

Eddie starts typing furiously, his thumbs flying over the keypad, before he decides telling them is not good enough. He has to show them just how much of a jackass Richie Tozier can be when left to his own devices online.

He opens IMDB on his phone, and takes a screenshot of the ridiculous credit in question. He posts it to the group chat, then begins typing again.

 **Eddie:** _He’s claiming to have been in fucking Star Wars is what the problem is!_

 **Ben:** _OMG what? Star Wars!! That would be a dream come true! Richie is it real?_

 **Eddie:** _Of course it isn’t real! Do you think he would ever shut up about it if it was real? He’d be rubbing it in our faces every goddamn day. It would have been the first thing he told us in Derry. He probably would have fucking told Pennywise!_

 **Richie:** _haha yeah sure! right in between vomiting in fear and pissing my pants as it loomed over me i could have been like, um excuse me mr wise, but how dare you attack me, don’t you know that i have a credit in star wars? and it would have been like oh shit you’re right actually how dare i, here have an oscar_

Eddie laughs in surprise, and finds himself just as irritated as always to have Richie managing to make him laugh so effortlessly, even while Eddie is in the middle of a tirade against him. 

It has always infuriated him; that Richie can listen to him rant, and often even agree with the point Eddie is making against whatever idiocy he’s pulled now, and can still tease a chuckle from Eddie despite it all.

He clears his throat and decides to double down, as he would if they were in person. Richie is his best friend, and the two of them have always been united against the rest of the world, but there really is nothing like bickering with him. 

There’s never been anything like it to get Eddie’s blood pumping. 

Both have always wound each other up so effortlessly, and yet there has always been a chemistry between them while they argue, and an unspoken knowledge that nothing they say is to be taken seriously. 

It’s not real. It’s just another way to claim attention from each other.

Fuck, he misses Richie so goddamn much. He can’t help but lean into their bickering, a smirk appearing on his face as he types quickly.

 **Eddie:** _Can’t you take anything seriously for once, dipshit? You can’t go around lying on what is essentially your resume! People pay attention to this kind of thing!_

 **Richie:** _wait oh shit eddie are your panties are all twisted for real over this? calm your sweet tits okay? i definitely didn’t add that to my list or whatever. i promise i wouldn’t have a clue how to. but i bet my manager did because It’s 100% real baby_

 **Mike:** _Remind me, it’s been a while – which character is BB-8?_

 **Ben:** _The super-cute little round robot!!_

 **Bev:** _yeah bb-8 is the absolute cutest omg. richie is it really you??_

 **Richie:** _sure is_

 **Eddie:** _Oh come on! I don’t buy this for a second! Nobody voiced it at all surely! Isn’t its voice just lots of bullshit beeps and boops and shit? Richie I can’t believe you would make this up!_

**Richie:** _wow o wow, harsh words indeed from eddie there! i did the best performance i could man! i hand crafted every single one of those bullshit beeps and boops!_

**Bill:** _This is amazing. I don’t even care if it’s real. I never thought I’d get to see Eddie get so angry about Star Wars, let alone Richie be IN it._

 **Bill:** _If he actually is._

 **Richie:** _hey! it’s the realest billy boy I swear!_

 **Stan:** _Well, there’s an easy enough way to prove it. Richie, why don’t you send us a video of you doing the voice?_

 **Richie:** _i mean i can definitely do that but it won’t sound like it did in the movie. they ran it through some kinda voice changer app thing to get it to sound more roboty_

 **Eddie:** _HOW CONVENIENT!_

 **Richie:** _holy shit eds are you actually for real with this? i swear it’s really me!_

 **Stan:** _Eddie does have a point though. Why wouldn’t you be talking about this all day, every day if it really was you?_

 **Richie:** _ouch, stanley_

 **Richie:** _okay so it was like 20 mins work total maybe?? for maybe 3 mins of “dialogue” in the movie? and jj asked me to keep kinda hush hush about it because he didn’t want to spoil any kids’ dreams that it was a real robot? or something like that anyway, i can’t really remember_

 **Richie:** _but it was definitely all me, even with them making it sound more electronic! jj asked me to do it himself. he’s a fan for some reason. i know - he must have shitty taste. he just called me one day and asked if i would like to have a credit in star wars. he actually did the same thing a couple years before when he did that star trek movie_

Eddie blinks at his phone in surprise. Part of his brain is telling him to stop, suddenly awash with shame at starting this when Richie’s messages are changing from amused to what seems more defensive in tone. 

Eddie really didn’t think he would be bothered by this line of teasing. Richie has always been so blasé about his career pre-Derry; he has casually insulted his old material countless times, and has always dismissed any suggestion that he might in any way be a big deal. 

He had thought that this would just be another way to get Richie’s goat; an admittedly childish way to turn Richie’s attention onto him when the thought of having to wait a few more days to actually see him was too much. 

It was just more of the same harmless fun. He wasn’t meant to get _upset_.

But not only is he denying this, he’s actually making the whole farce even bigger? This is ridiculous, and the part of Eddie which feeds on conflict and confrontation and, most of all, on Richie himself is thrumming with the need for more.

Eddie hurriedly scrolls further down on Richie’s IMDB entry and scoffs when he finds an entry which does indeed claim he was in _Star Trek: Into Darkness_. He takes a screenshot, and posts it into the chat.

 **Eddie:** _Yeah, I see you added that little gem onto your page too. “Additional voices” huh? What, you didn’t feel like you could get away with claiming to play Data?_

 **Ben:** _I don’t think Data is in that one actually Eddie haha! Why don’t we all just stop talking about this? I’m sure Richie wouldn’t try to joke about this if it wasn’t real!_

 **Eddie:** _That’s exactly what he’s doing!_

 **Richie:** _oh shit is that really on there? wow i had like one line total in it. i was the voice of one of the computers or something. iust goes to show what kind of range i have i guess! i kind of thought jj was kidding when he said i’d get credit for it. i don’t even remember hearing myself in it when I watched it_

 **Stan:** _Wait. You’re saying J.J. Abrams contacted you himself and asked you to do both of these things?_

 **Richie:** _i mean there’s no accounting for taste i know but honestly yes he did guys. he asked me as a fan if i would like to be in his movies. in the smallest possible roles i know but i promise that’s what happened!_

 **Eddie:** _Oh come on!! There’s no way YOU are in both Star Wars AND Star Trek! This is fucking ridiculous, right?!_

 **Mike:** _It’s certainly something!_

 **Richie:** _thank you mike, i think?_

 **Eddie:** _This is crazy. You can’t really expect us to buy this shit?_

 **Richie:** _it’s a crazy world eddie spaghetti what can i say?_

 **Eddie:** _I just cannot believe this. You’re saying you were really the voice of the cute ball robot everyone went so nuts over a few years ago? And you just never wanted to mention it? Beep beep, Richie!_

 **Stan:** _You mean “beep boop, Richie.”_

 **Bill:** _Oh my god Stan!_

 **Mike:** _Sorry, Richie, but that really did make me laugh!_

 **Richie:** _haha_

 **Richie:** _look if my word really means nothing do you want me to call him so he can tell you himself?_

 **Stan:** _Wow. Do you actually have his number?_

 **Richie:** _i wouldn’t offer if i didn’t_

 **Eddie:** _Yeah, sure, Rich! As if we can trust a call from a guy known for his impressions! I just bet “JJ” will say exactly what you want us to hear!_

**Richie:** _well fuck_

**Richie:** _i’m not sure what else i can actually do to persuade you guys i’m not full of shit_

**Richie:** _listen i should go okay? house to clean, work to do, all that jazz. thanks for the entertainment for my lunch break i guess_

No further messages are forthcoming, and the part of Eddie’s brain which has been desperately suggesting that maybe Richie’s feelings are actually being hurt by their teasing gets even louder.

Eddie tries typing a message to Richie several times over the course of the next twenty minutes or so, but eventually he gives it up as a bad job. He’s not sure what he wants to say, or how to word an apology to a man known for dodging sincerity as much as he possibly can. 

Hell, he’s not even sure whether he’s just reading too much into Richie’s messages and spinning this all into a bigger mess than it actually is.

It doesn’t feel like that, though.

Eventually, he reaches out to take a bite of the abandoned Reese’s bar, and gags when the peanut butter welds itself to the roof of his mouth. It does not taste as good as he remembers.

He eats the whole thing anyway, while sitting at his desk and staring morosely at Richie’s IMDB page, and then he goes home.

It is the first time since he moved in that his apartment feels anything other than welcoming. It is as though it has shifted to fit his mood; his nagging guilt shapes the space around him until it feels too big, too dark, too cold.

Eddie rattles around in it for a few hours as he goes through his evening routine. He makes dinner, and does not taste a bit of it as he distractedly eats, but boxes up the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch anyway. 

He tells himself that he will feel better after going for a jog, so gets dressed for it, then realises it has begun to rain heavily enough that he would be soaked to the skin within seconds of stepping outside.

Somewhere, in the back of his brain, a voice he has still not quite managed to silence completely whispers that he will definitely get pneumonia if he goes out in weather like this. 

He sets his jaw determinedly, and leaves the apartment, doing his best to ignore the voice.

He makes it as far as the bottom floor of the building before he sighs and traipses back upstairs. 

Eddie tells himself quietly that not wanting to splash through freezing rain does not mean he is slipping back into bad habits, and he has a hot shower instead.

It is too early for him to sleep, so he tries to distract himself while the minutes drag like his watch has been set to half speed. 

He tries to force himself to finish off some painting in the hallway, but he only has the door frames left to do, and he can feel his body thrumming with restless energy, and he does not want to risk ruining the work he has already done with shaking hands. 

Then he tries to read for a while, but he cannot stop his attention from wandering. He finds himself picking up his phone mid-sentence, checking to see if anything further has been said in the chat, and setting it aside with a sigh when all he sees is Richie’s last plaintive message. 

When he reaches a new chapter, and realises he has no idea whatsoever what happened in the one he just read, he closes the book with a groan.

He reaches for his phone once more, swallows his pride, and calls Richie.

It rings for a while, and Eddie is just resigning himself to the idea that he has managed to offend Richie enough that he has resorted to ignoring him, when he answers. 

“Okay, so, if you’re calling to cast doubt on anything else I’ve done, can you make it quick? Bill’s gonna be here soon and you know how impatient he gets if he’s kept waiting.”

Eddie winces. Richie is laughing, and there is a cheery tone to his words, but Eddie knows him too well to buy it. He knows damn well what deflection sounds like coming from Richie’s lips. “Look, yeah, I… I won’t keep you long, okay? I just need to talk to you. If you’ll listen?”

“Sure. Always.”

“I’m really sorry,” Eddie blurts out, and Richie falls silent immediately. “Look, it started out as a joke, okay?”

“As all the best things do.”

“And sure, I… I kinda meant it, I guess?” he admits, forcing himself to be honest. He’s pretty sure Richie will not thank him for trying to spare his feelings, even after everything he already said. “When I said that I couldn’t believe that you’d been in Star Wars _and_ Star Trek. It just sounds so crazy, y’know?”

Richie lets out a bark of sharp laughter. “Yes, Eddie, I _know_. You made your feelings very clear when you roasted me so mercilessly. On my birthday, even!”

Eddie winces. He slides into a seat, and fiddles restlessly with a loose thread on his cardigan. “Yeah, that was, uh… not my best timing, huh? I’m sorry, Rich. Honestly, I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Really? You didn’t bring it up in the first place in the hope of piercing my inflated ego and mocking me in front of all our friends?”

“Okay, so I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings any more than I usually do,” Eddie allows, feeling another stab of guilt, and yet Richie chuckles warmly.

“God, listen to us. We’re the fucking worst, right? Look, I get it, okay? Calm your perky tits, Eddie, I understand, believe me. If I knew even one single thing about your boring-ass job I’d be roasting you about it too.”

Eddie smiles tentatively. “I think you just did.”

“Well, yeah, but if I could understand literally any specifics about it, I’d be crafting way more honed insults. Your toned little butt wouldn’t know what hit it.”

“Could you do me a favour and leave my tits and ass out of this, please? I’m trying to apologise to you!”

“Look, it’s all fine, Eds. Yeah, we might be the worst, but you’re my – you’re my best friend, okay? Thanks for the apology, but you can forget about it, buddy. I don’t want you to think you can’t insult my career choices just because I’m feeling weirdly tender one day.”

“Because it’s your birthday?” Eddie guesses, and Richie sighs.

“Another year older,” he murmurs. “Kinda makes you think about things, right?”

“Things?”

“Life,” Richie offers softly after a moment. “My shitshow of a life, specifically. Where I am. What I want. What I’m missing. What I need to accept about myself.”

Eddie feels his grip on the thread tighten involuntarily as he gives it an anxious tug. His thoughts whirl as he absently watches his fingertips turn white beneath the pressure of it. 

He’s done a lot of thinking about acceptance over the past few weeks.

He cannot stop his thoughts from circling Bev’s ‘joke’ from the day she helped him move into his apartment. More and more often recently he has found himself lying in bed, staring the ceiling and gripped with anxiety as his mind toys with her words.

She had sounded so sure, as she said it. Like it wasn’t a joke at all. Like there was nothing at all unusual about Eddie potentially lusting after her partner.

Her _boyfriend_.

At the back of his mind, his mother’s voice wails about sickness, and his stomach lurches uneasily.

But somehow, as the days go on, Eddie finds it is getting easier and easier to ignore that voice. He finds that he can push through the anxiety, and think rationally about himself.

It’s scary, sure. But it’s also kind of liberating.

He’s not sure who he is any more, but he’s kind of excited to find out who he could be.

He’s equally sure he will do anything possible to hide this reaction from Richie right now.

Richie is his best friend, and Eddie has already upset him today. He does not deserve Eddie compounding the awkwardness with ill-timed musing about his thoughts on his own confused identity. 

It’s his birthday. He should be enjoying himself. God knows he deserves it after everything he’s been through.

Besides, what would Eddie even say? ‘I’m not actually sure what to label myself but I’m pretty sure I’m not straight’? Yeah, real smooth, Kaspbrak.

He forces the words back, pushing them deep down into his chest to unpack another day, and instead says, “You’ll find somebody soon, Rich. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

“Right. Sure. Any, any girl that wants to climb aboard the ol’ Tozier Train,” Richie snorts, and his words sounds sharper and more scathing than Eddie expected. “I’ll be honest, Eds, I don’t feel like that’s going to be a long line of potential passengers. For a start, I guess I’ve already ruled out any Star Wars or Star Trek fans, huh?”

Eddie pulls hard on the thread wrapped around his fingers as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Honestly, Richie, I really am sorry. I believe you, okay? Of course I don’t think you’d lie about something so stupid. And not only because I genuinely don’t believe you know how to work that website.”

“You’re not wrong!” Richie laughs brightly. “Stop, stop. No more apologies, okay? We’re fine. If your mudslinging is the worst thing I hear about myself today then I’m sure I’ll be lucky. I get that it’s crazy, Eds. I think it’s crazy too. How the hell did some talentless fraud like me end up in Star Wars _and_ Star Trek, right?” Richie laughs, and Eddie’s jaw drops. He stands frozen in place, his fingers tightening furiously on his phone as a rush of shame envelops him. “It’s ridiculous, like you said. I get it. I shouldn’t have got so butthurt about it.”

“What? No, shut the fuck up, Richie, that’s not it at all!” Eddie bursts, and the vehemence in his voice startles even him. Richie makes a noise of surprise, and Eddie’s fists curl up tightly. God, how little does Richie think of himself? He angrily tightens his jaw. “Is that what you thought I – no! Fucking listen to me, okay?”

“Hey, I’m listening,” Richie says, an alarmed tone behind his laugh. “I don’t have the balls not to, I promise! Jeez, Eddie!”

“It’s not crazy that you were in two of the biggest franchises ever because you can’t act, or something, okay? It’s crazy because it’s _you_. It’s – it’s my best friend, being in Star Wars and Star Trek, and I remember us watching those fucking things together when we were tiny, and all of us thinking they were the best things we’d ever seen! Like, not being able to imagine anything better, y’know? And now here you are, being asked to be in _both_! It’s amazing, Richie! Not because you don’t deserve it, or whatever you think I’m saying!” 

He breaks off, and takes a deep breath, and softens his voice as he goes on, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. “God, how can you say that about yourself?”

“What?” Richie’s voice is weirdly quiet. “That I got butthurt?”

“No! That you’re a talentless fraud! You know that’s not true, you asshole!”

Richie says nothing for a long moment, and then forces another laugh. “C’mon, Eds. You spent some time looking back at my career today. You know damn well the kind of shit I’ve done. Did you forget about the team of people I needed to write jokes that even a goddamn teenage boy would think were too puerile to use?”

“Yeah, okay, I know what you used to be,” Eddie allows. His hands are shaking in frustration. “But I also know that you’ve spent pretty much an entire year working to change all of that, even when it meant doing things that terrified you. That you’re selling out gigs and having people line up in the street to see you! That you’re putting everything you have into your new material, and that it’s _great_.”

“Eddie, you don’t have to, like, fucking flatter me -”

“- It’s not flattery!” Eddie snaps. He falls silent for a moment, aware that he’s trembling, and pointedly tries to regulate his breathing. When he speaks again, he keeps his voice low. “Look, Richie, it’s _me_. You know me. You know that I’d tell you if I thought your material was shitty, right?”

“Whether I wanted you to or not, Eddie,” Richie half-laughs, before quieting. “Yeah. I know. I always trust your opinions. You’re not one for shovelling bullshit.”

“So will you trust me when I say that you’re talented?” Eddie asks, and it comes out more like a plea than anything else. “And that you deserve to be successful?”

Richie breathes for a moment, before sighing. He laughs softly. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Eddie. I love you. Uh, that is,” Richie says, suddenly fumbling, and Eddie’s heart flutters in his chest. 

It shouldn’t feel any different than it ever has, but something about his frantic stumbling, as though he’s said too much, sends sparks through Eddie’s stomach. “I, uh, I love our little chats, is what I… yeah.”

“Richie?” Eddie asks, his voice soft and uncertain as his thoughts fly. His determination not to say anything about his own issues crumbles in the face of Richie’s soft affection, and that same part of Eddie that had him needling Richie earlier – that needy, desperate side of himself that craves Richie’s attention, no matter what it takes to get it – seizes the reigns.

He takes a deep breath. 

“Listen, I’ve, uh, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about myself lately, and I -”

A barrage of knocks comes through the line, so loud it feels as though they could have been at his own door. Richie lets out a high-pitched shriek. 

“Oh-open up, Richie!” Eddie hears Bill yell, his voice muffled by the door.

“Give me one goddamn second, Bill! God, he has a knock like a fucking one-man riot squad,” Richie huffs. “Jesus Christ. I think I just shit my pants, Eddie. What, uh, what were you saying?”

Eddie laughs breathlessly, trying to ignore the way his stomach is swirling anxiously.

But the moment has passed, and he remembers, suddenly, that today is Richie’s birthday, and that he is about to head out and have fun with Bill. Richie does not need Eddie’s confused rambling hanging over him like so many rainclouds. 

Certainly not when he has already hurt his feelings once today, just for the thrill of having his attention.

Richie deserves better.

Eddie is ridiculous, and he knows it. “No, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. The party just started!”

“Yeah, I guess. Time for me to go entertain Big Bill,” Richie agrees. His voice initially sounds muted, as though disappointed, but when he speaks again, he sounds brighter. “Thanks for calling, Eds. I know birthdays don’t mean shit, but… it was nice to hear from you. Hey, I’ll see you soon, even!”

“See you soon, Rich.”

“Bye!”

The line goes dead against his ear. Eddie sighs, and sets his phone down on the table.

When he looks down at himself, he realises with a groan that the loose thread on his cardigan has become a spool of untangled yarn, trailing down to the floor and hanging from his clenched fist. The whole front panel has been unravelled as he fidgeted anxiously.

He is _ridiculous_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, I have trouble recognising Guy Pearce. I stand by it - he's a chameleon. He could be in the room with you right now, and you wouldn't even know.  
> 2\. Believe it or not, this fic stemmed from me thinking, "Bill Hader voiced BB-8? ...Haha, I bet Eddie would have given Richie shit about that, if he'd done it!" 80,000 words later...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the Losers are all together again.

Despite everything, Friday cannot come quickly enough. 

Eddie initially assumes that he will spend every day until Friday worrying about his reception when he arrives in L.A., but he suspects that Richie has anticipated as much, because he keeps up a steady stream of messages that Eddie knows damn well have been designed to assure him that everything is fine.

Richie texts him to wish him goodnight that night, much too late for Eddie to still be awake. The message has so many typos that Eddie suspects he and Bill must have practically floated home on a river of alcohol. 

It is all but incomprehensible, but the sight of it makes Eddie smile anyway; some phantom tightness he has carried since they spoke unwinds from his chest as he tries to translate Richie’s attempts at words. He texts back before heading to work, hoping Richie slept well and has escaped a hangover. 

Less than an hour later, much too early for even the most dedicated of west coast early birds to reasonably be awake, Eddie receives a series of three photographs from Richie: two Advil settled on the palm of his hand, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade, and a picture of a Bill. He is wearing nothing but his underwear, and he is sprawled awkwardly atop a couch with his pants hanging off the coffee table beside him, and his face half-smushed into a cushion. He is frowning even in sleep.

The same picture appears in the group chat shortly after, to the general delight of the Losers. Eddie assumes that every one of them has saved it for the purpose of future blackmail, with the possible exception of Ben, who is honestly too good for this world.

Bill, at least, takes their mockery with commendable grace when he finally emerges from unconsciousness, and suggests that maybe the photo should replace his po-faced picture on the dustjackets of his books.

Mike takes that as a challenge, and within an hour he has posted a mocked-up version of Bill’s last book into the chat, to their amusement. Bill seems particularly delighted, even when he realises Mike has reworded his biography to read, _“The modern master of horror – just don’t ask him for a happy ending.”_

The group chat gets more and more excited as they approach Friday, and though he enjoys their chatter, what pleases Eddie most is that Richie is more present in Eddie’s private messages. 

Eddie does not question why. He assumes that Richie is just continuing in his efforts to ensure Eddie does not backslide into anxiety about the trip. No doubt he doesn’t want their first big get-together post-Derry to be marred by his own bruised ego and Eddie’s still-lingering guilt.

He sternly reminds himself of this every single time his chest gives an excited little flutter at the receipt of another message from Richie. 

But it’s flattering, just how much Richie cares about his well-being.

It doesn’t help that Eddie keeps finding himself fondly looking at the pictures Richie and Stanley put in the group chat, or watching and re-watching the ridiculous Robert Smith lip-synch video Richie made. 

He often doesn’t even realise he’s doing it; he’ll pull his phone out, intending to reply to a text, and instead finds himself staring at Richie, taking in the genuine grin on his face with a fond smile of his own, and a weird squirm of heat dancing in his belly.

He’s just excited to see him. That’s all.

And then he hurriedly reminds himself that he’s excited to see _all_ of the Losers, and he quickly sets his phone aside, and fixedly turns his attention onto some other subject until the heat in his stomach dissipates.

Sometimes he lies alone in bed, and wonders why it is always Richie that his thoughts turn to before he goes to sleep.

He hopes Richie isn’t lonely, in his too-big house. 

He wishes he was happier.

Oh, well. At least Eddie can keep an eye on him while he’s in L.A.

Friday looms, and Richie sends a stream of texts to Eddie as the days go by, all of which are much more mundane than Eddie had ever considered possible from him. 

There is a picture of a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of cleaning fluid, both presented without comment. Another message follows a few hours after, a video which shows a few seconds of a washing machine hard at work. Another video follows the next day, apparently filmed by Bill, showing a scowling Richie swearing viciously as he manhandles a vacuum cleaner.

Later that evening, Richie sends a picture of Bill laden with bags outside of Bed, Bath & Beyond, wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a mutinous expression, and Eddie cracks.

**Eddie:** _Somebody looks cheerful._

**Richie:** _thanks we’re not!_

**Eddie:** _Then why the hell are you shopping?_

**Richie:** _gotta get nice new sheets before you and stan judge mine so hard i burst into flames_

**Eddie:** _Are you really scared of what we’ll think of your place? Is that why you’ve been sending me pictures of your housework odyssey?_

**Richie:** _why are they turning you on baby?_

Eddie laughs in surprise, even as a pink tinge floods his cheeks. The idea that Richie has spent the past few days cleaning just because he knows damn well Eddie will give him hell if the house is not up to standard is kind of sweet. 

He promises himself he won’t give Richie a hard time about it.

Well. Not _too_ hard a hard time, anyway.

**Eddie:** _Oh yeah man. I’m rock hard right now Richie. I’m fucking turgid over your rubber gloves._

**Richie:** _i knew you’d have a cleaning fetish!!!!_

**Eddie:** _You are ridiculous. Get back to work. You know how high my standards are._

**Richie:** _yessir!_

**Eddie:** _And buy Bill the biggest coffee you can find. I bet he deserves it._

**Richie:** _you’re not wrong spaghetti. will do_

By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, Eddie is certain his co-workers must be sick of him. He’s excited, more excited than he’s been in a long time, but it has expressed itself in impatience and irritability.

He snaps at a group of people chatting outside his door _again_ , and sends another infuriated email to his boss regarding the vending machine and the possibility of making it be somebody else’s problem. He spends ten minutes tossing a stress ball against his office wall because he can’t focus on anything else. He yells at his laptop for loading slowly while he tries to open a program, and startles a man walking past his office so badly that he drops a stack of files all over the corridor.

At least he has the good grace to help him pick them up. 

When noon finally hits, the woman who works in the office beside his audibly sighs in relief. “Have fun, Eddie!” she calls with a grin as he pokes his head sheepishly into her office to say goodbye. “And just so you know, I know you’re excited, so I’ve given you a pass today, but if you pull that shit with the stress ball again on Monday, I’m going to put it where the sun doesn’t shine! Safe travels! Enjoy yourself!”

He doesn’t bother heading home. He brought his carefully packed luggage to work with him, because the vacation starts the moment Ben and Bev pick him up in a cab.

He changes into something less formal in the privacy of his office and bounces out of the front door without looking back, humming to himself as he goes.

Eddie suspects they irritate the cab driver with their chatter, all three of them talking over each other as they discuss what they want to do over the weekend – Ben wants to go see the Hollywood sign, because of course he does – but none of them let his grumpiness bother them. 

There’s no touching the excitement of the Losers Club getting back together.

The flight is… a flight. Eddie has never been a fan of airplanes; they are practically the perfect storm of all his anxieties whirling together. Lack of control over a situation, mixed with disgust in the general hygiene of the public around him, mingling with every horror story about a crash he’s ever consumed.

It could so easily turn him into a nervous wreck, but Ben and Bev seat him between them in unspoken agreement, and work to distract him for hours.

They each have a couple of drinks, because it’s Friday, and why not? There’s no reason not to start now when they all know they’re going to end up regrettably shitfaced later that evening anyway. Then, already slightly buzzed on overpriced rum and coke, Beverly and Ben start finding ways to occupy the three of them.

Bev pulls out her phone, and leans against Eddie to show him every single one of her videos of their dog, who somehow seems to have grown even bigger and more drooly since Eddie saw her last. She’s very cute despite her propensity for leaving hair on Eddie’s legs, with her soulful eyes and paws still too big and clumsy for her to control, and it’s easier to forgive her shedding when it’s Bev and Ben taking the brunt of her love. 

When Beverly gleefully shows off a video of their sweetheart puppy greeting Ben so enthusiastically that he topples to the floor beneath her wriggling weight and spends the entire length of it cackling at his misfortune, Ben takes umbrage. He retaliates by tugging Eddie closer and, despite Bev’s laughing protests, shows a series of pictures of her trying to climb out from under their puppy as she sprawls sleepily atop her on the couch, pinning her in place with her weight.

Once their extensive library of dog pictures is exhausted, Bev declares that it is time to play some games, and pulls out her tablet to load up Scrabble. When Eddie wins, Ben declares that quizzes are the real test of smarts (“Yeah, well done, but if I hadn’t had _three J’s and a Q_ you’d be in big trouble, that’s all I’m saying!”) and starts a game of Trivial Pursuit on his phone. 

When Bev is narrowly declared the victor, much later, Ben threatens to bust out Uno.

Before Eddie knows it, his cheeks ache from laughing, and the plane is about to land. Bev and Ben both reach out to hold his hands as they touch down. 

He loves them so fucking much.

Mike and Stan are waiting for them in the airport, having flown in together after Mike road-tripped his way through Florida to Stan’s place. Eddie’s heart lifts at the sight of both of them; Mike waves cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he beckons them over without a trace of the stress and manic worry which had haunted him in Derry, while Stan stands beside him with his hands neatly folded and a languid smile spreading across his face. 

Ben spots them first, and nudges Bev and Eddie in the ribs, then takes off towards them at top speed. Eddie and Bev watch him run for a second, before sharing a grin and following hot at his heels, laughter bubbling from all three of them as they hightail their way through a crowded airport.

Oh, well. Eddie is sure L.A. has seen weirder sights than this.

Mike throws his head back in laughter as he sees them, and opens his arms to pull Ben into an enormous hug which ends with them spinning in place and giggling at each other. Stan has only a moment to chuckle at them before Bev skids to a stop in front of him and drags him into her embrace, her eyes shining as she leans in close to press a kiss to his cheek. He kisses her cheek in return, and murmurs something into her ear which has her squawking a laugh and burying her face against his shoulder.

Eddie arrives just after the two of them, and has just a moment of awkward hesitation at the thought of disturbing either pair before Mike throws out a hand to catch around his wrist and drags him closer. His arms wrap around Eddie and Mike holds him tightly, laughing softly as though he has seen straight through Eddie’s anxiety. “Hey, Eddie,” he murmurs, and Eddie hugs him back, and lets himself relax.

“Hi, Mikey,” he grins, and tracks his gaze over him. 

He’s dressed casually, and looks comfortable in his own skin in a way he hadn’t last time Eddie saw him, which does a lot to calm the part of Eddie which constantly frets over his friends. He’s also grown a salt-and-pepper beard at some point since his last selfie, which suits him enormously, and makes him look even more handsome than he always had. Eddie sighs against him, and tightens his hold. “How do you _keep_ getting better-looking, asshole?”

“It’s distressing, isn’t it?” Stan asks from behind him, and Eddie turns to see him aiming a smirk at the two of them. “It gets worse. Yesterday he got to my house after, what, eight solid hours of driving? And he had the audacity to smell amazing. I could have slapped him. Patty wants to bottle him.”

“Oh?” Eddie’s brows draw together curiously. He turns back to Mike, who nods his permission, and leans closer to sniffs curiously at him, overruling the shriek at the back of his brain yelling that this is _disgusting behaviour Eddie_. “Oh, shit, that _is_ good. What’re you wearing, Mike?”

“Nothing,” Mike shrugs. There’s a grin on his face when Eddie steps away. “It’s just me.”

“Well, shit,” Eddie says, and gives his shoulder a light punch. “How the hell are you still single?”

Mike’s smile softens into something more sheepish, and he ducks his gaze as he offers another shrug. “Hey, I have my share of fun. It’s all good. I’m in no rush to settle down.” He holds his hand out to Eddie in a fist and looks at him through his lashes, as though he is not entirely certain of his response; Eddie’s heart certainly does not skip a beat at the sight of him. “It’s all about living the single life, right?”

“Right,” Eddie laughs, and self-consciously returns Mike’s fist-bump. 

He suspects Mike’s version of the single life has rather more Floridian one-night-stand action than his own, which seems to mostly revolve around working too much, and then coming home to endlessly debate paint swatches that differ by a couple of shades at most.

Mike grins at him without comment, just as warm and amiable as he has always been, and Eddie moves aside to make way for Bev. He only makes it a step before Stan is drawing him into a hug, startling him slightly; Stan had never been the most physically demonstrative of the Losers, but right now he holds Eddie tightly, his arms clasped around him as though he is afraid Eddie might try to slip out of his grasp. 

Eddie freezes in confusion for a second before he returns the embrace with a laugh. “Hey, Stan,” he says, leaving his questions unasked, but perhaps his curiosity shows through in his tone, as Stan tightens his arms for a second. 

He pulls back and takes him in with a serious gaze, his eyes flitting over Eddie as though cataloguing his features, before his lips split into a grin. “It’s really good to see you, Eddie. Even if you don’t smell as good as Mike.”

“It’s amazing,” Bev confirms, her nose mere millimetres away from Mike’s neck. Ben frowns, and ducks closer as Mike tilts his chin up in silent invitation. Ben lets out a soft noise of appreciation, and Mike grins.

“What can I say? It’s a gift.”

There is suddenly a small chorus of chirps as their phones all ping as one, and Eddie fishes his phone from his pocket to find a text from Bill in their group chat. It’s a picture, showing both him and Richie leaning against the hood of a car; Bill is pretending to yawn, while Richie is tapping at his wrist, where a watch would sit if he were the kind of person who ever bothered with them. 

Bill’s message simply reads, _’We’re in the short-stay parking. Last Loser here buys the first round.’_

The five of them head through the airport together, walking as a group in a way Eddie knows damn well would irritate him if he were not one of them. As it is, he ignores the huffs of passing travellers in favour of listening to the group chatter excitedly.

It is easy enough to find the last two of the Losers Club in the parking lot; they are both leaning against the hood of a car, with the window open, blasting _Heroes_ by David Bowie and singing along at the top of their voices.

Eddie laughs then belatedly remembers both are theoretically celebrities. He wonders if this is the kind of thing that would get them thrown out of the parking lot if they were lesser mortals, then decides he does not care, and heads towards them at the heels of the rest of the group.

The music continues as Eddie approaches, and all the Losers are going from person to person with hugs and laughter and exclamations of delight, but Eddie still hears Richie’s voice over the top of it all. “Aaaaaaaaand it’s Eddie Spaghetti drawing up the rear! Looks like the drinks are on Eddie, y’all! Get your orders in now, before he pretends he left his wallet in New York!”

“Fuck you, Trashmouth! I’m good for it! I’ve got enough to buy the top dollar shit for everyone but you!” Eddie yells back over their racket, and his grin could split his face in two as Richie laughs.

A messy few minutes follow, as Bill and Richie circulate through the group, claiming hugs and chattering. Eddie takes a good look at Bill after they embrace; he wears his usual bright, crooked grin, and squeezes Eddie heartily on the shoulder after they hug. Eddie cannot stop himself from checking, and a quick glance at his hand reveals his wedding ring is in place.

Bill’s eyes follow Eddie’s, and his grin dims for a brief moment before he issues a tiny shrug.

“You good?” Eddie asks, keeping his voice too low to be overheard. Bill sighs, then looks around the group as they laugh and joke together, and his smile returns to its usual brilliance.

“’Course I am,” he grins, and hugs Eddie again. “It’s guh-good to see you, man.”

“Bring it in, Billy!” Mike says from beside Eddie, his smile broad and just as dazzling in its exuberance. Bill laughs, shoots Eddie a soft look, and then bounces into Mike’s arms.

Eddie watches them hug with a grin, laughing when Mike pulls Bill off his feet to swing him around giddily. When Mike staggers and stumbles closer, thrown off balance by Bill’s flailing feet, Eddie takes an alarmed step back, and collides with somebody.

He reels, off-kilter and suddenly sure he’s about to take a spill, when the person grabs him. Arms wrap around his waist to hold him up, and he clings instinctively at them as he scrambles to find his balance. “Whoa! You’re good, Eds, be cool!”

Eddie whirls around in the circle of his arms, and finds Richie grinning down at him, his eyes sparkling in amusement. “So you’re literally throwing yourself at me, huh? Y’know, some people might say that smacks of desperation, but honestly, Eds, I’m flattered.”

“You wish, fuckface,” Eddie laughs, and Richie shifts his arms to draw him into a tight hug.

It should feel the same as hugging anybody else. It should not feel any different at all to hugging Bev, or Bill, or any of them.

And yet…

And yet Eddie finds himself stepping closer to Richie than he had to anybody else, plastering himself against him and leaning up on his toes to fit his chin over Richie’s shoulder. Richie’s arms pull him closer, his large hands covering the span of his back as he holds him, and something warm uncurls in Eddie’s belly at the feel of Richie wrapped around him. 

He is warm and solid in Eddie’s hold, and he before he knows what he is doing, he nuzzles into Richie’s wild curls and inhales deeply; he smells of some fruity citrus shampoo, and the leather of his jacket, and beneath it all, a hint of smoke.

It should turn Eddie’s stomach. He hates smoking with a passion, after all. He’s lectured Richie and Bev about the need for them to quit innumerable times.

But the smell of it brings him back to their youth, to thousands of hugs shared with Richie, all too brief and secretive for the fear of what people might say, and Eddie finds himself sagging in Richie’s hold, and clinging to him all the more tightly.

He hurriedly tells himself it’s just because he hasn’t seen Richie since they left Derry again, and does his best to ignore the fact that he hasn’t reacted to any of the others that way.

If Richie thinks anything is amiss, he does not show it. Instead he gives him a squeeze, and turns his head towards Eddie to murmur against his ear. “Missed you, Eds.”

“Missed you too, Trashmouth.” Eddie pulls away just far enough to look up at Richie. He takes in the fondness shining through his smile, and the excitement sparkling in his eyes, despite their ever-present dark circles and the tired lines at the corners. His shirt is louder than the music blaring from his car, and from what he can tell his undershirt seems to be inside-out, and he has toothpaste smeared on his jaw.

Eddie finds himself overcome by a sudden wash of fondness. “God, you’re a mess,” he laughs up at Richie, and then abruptly realises two things: that they are pressed together with their faces barely inches apart, and that everybody else is grinning at them.

He pulls away from Richie quickly, aware that his own smile is suddenly bordering on manic, and blurts, “You should smell Mike!”

Richie’s eyebrows rise in surprise, but he does not question this. Instead, he immediately wheels his way towards Mike with intent. “Should I?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows at Mike. “Why? You got something awful brewing, Mikey?”

“Quite the opposite,” Stan remarks. He addresses Richie, but his eyes are flickering curiously over Eddie, who quickly looks away.

“It’s amazing,” Bev offers. “He’s not even wearing anything, but he smells like people in commercials probably smell. It can’t be real.”

“They’re being ridiculous,” Mike says, but he beckons Richie closer, and grins when Richie ducks to snuffle over the line of his throat then pulls away wearing an astonished look.

“Holy fuck, Michael! How is nobody climbing you like a tree right now? Is this really all you? No fancy cologne or whatever?”

“Nope!”

“Well, shit! Are you creating pure fuck-pheromones or what?” He goggles at Mike as he grins. “You all smelled him already?”

“Yup.”

“I assume he’s impregnated you by now, right, Bev?” Richie asks, turning to face her and weathering her poke to his arm with an exaggerated wince before his eyes land on Eddie. “And you too, Eds? You’re already carrying Mike’s love-baby in that toned little tummy of yours, yeah?”

“You are the worst person I know,” Eddie says flatly.

“Bill, you have to smell this. Come smell Mike,” Richie demands. Bill looks to him in surprise, torn from a conversation with Ben, and Richie turns to Mike. “He can, right?”

“Uh.” Mike, who has borne their enthusiasm with good grace since they met up, looks embarrassed for the first time. His eyes move to Bill, before they drop to the floor as he shrugs. “If he wants. He doesn’t have to.”

Bill laughs softly, but shakes his head. “No, it’s oh-okay, I don’t nuh-need to.”

“You do!” Richie insists. “He smells like a fucking bakery, or something! A sexy bakery!”

“I know he d-does, but that’s nothing new, guys, c’mon. Mike’s a-always smelled amazing,” Bill says absently, then suddenly flushes pink as the group stare at him. He aims a hasty smile at Mike, and turns on his heel to get into the car. “Well, c’mon, we have reh-reservations we need to k-keep! Why are we wasting t-t-time here?”

“Why, indeed?” Stan asks lightly, and Eddie cannot help the laugh that escapes him.

***

Despite Bill’s panicked reason for setting off, they actually have plenty of time before dinner, so they carpool back to Richie’s place to freshen up and drop off their bags. Bev and Ben climb into Bill’s car, and Stan and Eddie settle in with Richie.

Mike hovers between both cars for a moment, before he gives Bill a self-conscious smile and gets in behind Richie. 

“Good choice,” Stan says dryly as Bill drives off.

Mike chuckles, soft and sheepish. “It’s fine,” he says lightly. “We’ve all been awkward in our time, haven’t we? That’s practically the biggest bond between all of us.”

“Yeah, well, there’s awkward and there’s serial killer,” Eddie snorts, mostly because if he says what he’s actually thinking, he feels like Mike might just catch on fire.

“Yeah, right? What the hell,” Richie laughs. He hunches over as he drives, drawing his shoulders up to his ears and arranging his features into a grotesque mask as he leers, “’Mike’s always smelled amazing!’ Creepy much, Bill? Calm your loins!”

Eddie watches Stan turn to stare at Richie, who drops his act immediately. He blinks at Stan, who pointedly arches an eyebrow at him. 

Richie rolls his eyes, but he says nothing further, settling instead for sticking his tongue out with a scowl. This must satisfy Stanley in some way, as he turns back to face the road with a small, triumphant smirk.

Eddie frowns, suddenly certain that an entire conversation just flew over his head without a word being spoken. 

He shifts uncomfortably as Stan looks out of the window and Richie turns the radio on with an irritable jab at his dashboard, wondering what just happened in their heads. 

“Do you know if Audra is joining us for dinner, Rich?” Mike asks, and Eddie turns to see him looking studiously calm.

Rich glances at him in the rear-view mirror, and Eddie watches his hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “Uh. No. Sorry, guys. She was thinking about it, but…” 

He trails off, and shrugs, before he sighs. “Look, I don’t want you all to think I’m a gossipy bitch, but you’ll figure it out the second we get home, so I might as well just spill. Bill’s been staying with me for the past few days. I don’t think either of them know what they want right now.”

“Shit,” sighs Eddie.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike murmurs, his eyebrows drawn together sympathetically. “Poor Bill. That sucks.”

“Yeah. He’s… I don’t know, man. He’s excited to have you all here, and that’s all I know,” Richie says. His fingers drum on the wheel as he drives, and Eddie sees the corner of his mouth screw up as he thinks. “For the record, Audra is, like, super awesome. Hilarious. A total sweetheart of a babe. It’ll be a real shame if you guys don’t get to meet her. Don’t go thinking she’s some bitch, okay?”

“We wouldn’t,” Mike offers. He smiles gently, just as disarmingly charming as he has always been. “She must be something special if Bill likes her, right?”

“Right. So, like, just… we’ll see, I guess. I don’t know which way it’s going to go.”

Stan clears his throat, and speaks slowly. “All we can do is be there for him, either way.” His lips spread into a fond smile. “And show him a hell of a time while we’re here.”

***

Richie’s house turns out to be much grander than Eddie had even pictured.

He gapes at it in astonishment when Richie pulls into his drive, aware that Mike and Stanley are doing the same when Richie clears his throat and startles all of them. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, before he shrugs tightly. “Here we are,” he mutters, and unclicks his seatbelt. The sound is much louder than it should be in their astonished silence.

Eventually, Mike whistles. “Well, damn. Little Richie Tozier did _very_ well for himself.”

“Too well,” Stan comments. He arches an eyebrow at Richie. “Why’d you choose somewhere so big? Do you have a gaggle of illegitimate kids you need to put up every other weekend?”

“Stanley, please! You know I only get custody of my assorted bastard darlings every third Tuesday of the month,” Richie drawls, but his tone is muted as he speaks. 

He shrugs after a moment, and turns to look at his own place with pink cheeks. “It’s not even the biggest house on the street, okay? I’m not the hugest swinging dick in L.A. I don’t even use half the rooms. Most of ‘em are empty.”

“Why not move?” Eddie asks, trying his best to keep his voice level after he rehashes every worried thought he has ever had about Richie being alone. 

Richie just shrugs again. “Nowhere ever feels right,” he admits, and his eyes are fixed on the house. “At least all my shit is unpacked here. What’s the point in packing it all up and carting it across town just to feel wrong in a new place?”

“Richie,” Stan says, so gently. 

Richie glances sidelong at him, apparently taken aback by his soft tone, and suddenly it is as though a switch is flipped; Richie laughs slightly too loudly, and a bright smile spreads across his lips. 

“Besides! It’d only confuse my takeout delivery crew, right? They don’t need the stress of having to figure out a whole new route to get to me! We’re all very happy with our current arrangement,” he grins, and slides out of the car.

Stan sighs softly in the silence. His eyes meet Eddie’s in the rear-view mirror, and he gives him a troubled look.

Then the three of them go trooping after Richie as he approaches the front door.

Bill’s car is already parked in the drive, but they can only have arrived here seconds before, as Bill is still fiddling with keys on Richie’s doorstep. Richie hunches over him and helpfully fishes the correct key from the collection on his keyring, and throws open the door with a grand gesture.

“Welcome to _Casa del Tozier_!” he cries, striding inside and flinging his arms open. “Come in! Make yourselves at home! Obviously it is _always_ this neat and tidy and didn’t require whole days of cleaning to look presentable!”

“My back still hurts,” Bill mutters, and nudges Richie in the ribs. “You’re wuh-welcome, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks, Billy. Hey, guys, if you’re ever in need of a cleaner who will bitch the entire time and is also likely to pour an entire bucket of dirty water over a floor you _just_ mopped -”

“- Th-that was an accident, you fuh-fucking asshole -”

“- Then Big Bill comes highly recommended,” Richie says sagely. He glances at his phone. “We can take a tour, if you want? I’m going to get an uber to pick us up pretty soon, but we have time. There’s not a lot to see, honestly.”

“I want to see,” Eddie says quickly, the words bursting from him. Richie’s eyes dart to him, and Eddie lifts his chin. “C’mon. Show me how you live, Rich. Do your worst. Horrify me.”

“I mean, gladly, but I’m not paying for any therapy required as a result,” Richie shrugs.

They all follow him as he leads them through his house; or, at least, through the few rooms he actually uses. Eddie suspects he wasn’t joking about keeping most of the rooms closed off. It only takes them a little while to do a quick circuit of his living room, kitchen, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms, some of which he admits he only aired out for this weekend. 

Beyond that, there’s a corridor he walks past, along which are several closed doors, with no light spilling from under the doorframes. “That goes to the rest of the house,” he says dismissively, and keeps going. There is a thick layer of dust on the floor.

Eddie frowns as they go, remembering the conversation they had when he first moved into his apartment. 

Richie had been telling the truth, he realises, as they look through his rooms; none of the furniture or decorating choices marry up with Richie’s tastes at all. It’s all very minimalist; white walls and dark furniture and floors, with the occasional grey tone here and there doing its pallid best to liven things up. Richie makes for an incongruous sight as he strides around, standing out in his bright shirt and awkwardly pointing things out as though seeing them for the first time himself.

The only places Richie’s personality seems to shine through are the places he’s actually tried to make look his own. 

He’s put a couple of posters up in his living room, and in the bedroom he seems to use as his own; there’s one of the original _Street Fighter_ art, and more of the posters for _Airplane!_ and _Labyrinth_ , and cover art for a Rolling Stones album Eddie is not familiar with. 

Richie has also pinned quite a few pictures of the seven of them around his bedroom walls; pictures Eddie recognises as having been posted in the group chat since they left Derry behind them once again.

Eddie wanders around Richie’s bedroom as the group chatter around him, each of them distracted by critiquing his style while he laughs along with it. There’s a picture on his bedside table, and Eddie realises that it is the only photo in the room that Richie has bothered to frame. 

His breath catches when he realises that it is a picture of him. 

It’s from a few months ago, he thinks dizzily; it has to be from before his divorce, even, because he’s still wearing his wedding ring in it. He remembers the night it was taken only fuzzily, through the warm, happy mist of the very drunk. 

Bev and Ben had invited him to their place for the night, with no real occasion in mind beyond wanting to see him, and he recalls being so glad all over again that he had real friends close by for the first time since childhood.

He’d lied to Myra about it, he remembers with a brief flash of guilt. He’d told her he was going out of town for work, and had stayed the night with Bev and Ben, and hadn’t thought twice about her.

They’d ordered take-out, much too much for three people, and he’d met their dog, who at the time was still small enough to fit comfortably in his lap. They’d drunk wine, and watched some shitty movie together, and had heckled it throughout, the way they had used to when they were kids, and would get thrown out of the cinema for being disruptive. 

Then they’d started playing Jenga, because Ben mentioned that he had a set somewhere, and once the thought had hit them they’d _had_ to play it, even though none of them had anywhere near the coordination required to do well after splitting multiple bottles of wine between them.

Ben had snapped the picture just as the tower had fallen over onto Bev, as she shrieked at the top of her voice and sent Eddie into gales of helpless laughter. 

His mouth is open in the picture, with his head thrown back and a tear trickling down over the scar on his cheek as he howls. One hand is raised in the act of pointing at Bev, and the other is bracing himself on the floor as he sprawls easily, looking for once as though he does not have a care in the world.

Richie had not reacted much at the time it was posted, he remembers. He’d sent a message back telling them to have fun together, and to give the dog a thousand pets from him.

And then, apparently, he’d saved the photo, printed it out, and framed it to sit by his bed.

Eddie stares at it while his stomach turns in circles and his heart pounds in his throat. Richie’s bedside table holds a lamp, an alarm clock, a box of tissues and a box of wipes, a case for his glasses, and a framed picture of Eddie.

He startles badly when somebody suddenly reaches past him to pick up the photograph, and takes a step backwards as Stan leans in to examine it. “Jesus, Stanley,” he mumbles, around the thudding of his heart. “Warn a guy, okay?”

“Sorry,” Stan says easily. He looks at the picture, and then his eyes slide onto Eddie’s face with a studiously innocent expression. “You seemed like you were miles away.”

“Just thinking,” Eddie manages.

Stan nods, and carefully returns the picture to the exact spot it had stood in. “About what you did to earn pride of place?” he asks lightly, and Eddie feels his face heat up.

“Uh, something like that, I guess?”

“C’mon, Eddie,” Stan murmurs, and his voice is too soft to be overheard, but his eyes are sharp as they fix onto Eddie. He smiles lightly. “Don’t you know?”

Eddie stammers at him for a long moment, his mouth working like a fish gasping for air, before Richie’s voice cuts him off. 

“Uber’s here!” he announces. He looks up from his phone, and his eyes land on Eddie and Stan. They widen when he sees where they are standing, and he jerks his thumb towards the door, his smile suddenly too big, too broad. “C’mon, Losers! Time to get _crunk_ , am I right?”

“You’re such a dork,” Mike laughs fondly, and Richie gives him an indignant scowl as he ushers them towards his front door.

“Says the fucking _librarian_!”

Mike merely chuckles and shakes his head, but his face lights up as they pass back through the living room. “Oh!” He kneels and starts digging through his bag. “Before we go, I have a present for you, Richie.”

The group groan as a whole. “Dammit, Mike!” Richie protests. “What did I say? No gifts!”

“Yeah, what gives, Mike? You’re making the rest of us look bad,” Bev grumbles, poking Mike in the backside with the toe of her sneaker.

“It’s not much of a gift, believe me,” Mike laughs as he glances up at her. His grin widens as he apparently finds what he’s looking for, and he straightens up with his hands tucked behind his back. He ducks his head sheepishly as he approaches Richie. “Let me plead my case before you yell at me about being too old, okay?”

Richie sniffs, and waves his hand theatrically. “I suppose you may proceed.”

“Very gracious of you,” Mike snorts. He looks around at the group, and his face lights up with a smile. “Living in Derry… Staying there, for all those years, it wasn’t easy. It was my duty, and I knew that, and I’d do it again, a hundred times over, but that didn’t make it easy.”

“Mike,” Bill murmurs softly. His eyes shine as he looks at him, but Mike merely offers a loose shrug.

“It’s fine, Billy. What _did_ make it easier was remembering all of you. I was never truly alone if I could remember the rest of you Losers. I’d be exhausted, and stressed, and wondering if I’d ever be able to find a way to stop It, but then I’d think about all of you, and suddenly… Suddenly I could carry on. I’d think about Stan telling us about the last bird he spotted, or Bev designing a new outfit, or Bill…” 

He meets Bill’s eyes, and suddenly stops, aiming a flustered smile at the floor. “Anyway. Whenever I needed to laugh, I’d think about you, Richie. And your Voices.”

Richie smiles. His hands slide into his pockets and he rocks on the balls of his feet. “Jeez, Mikey. I already thought your situation was shitty, but having to remember my Voices for twenty-seven years? Ouch. I don’t envy you, buddy.”

“They kept me going!” Mike protests around a laugh. “And I was at Disney World the other day, and -” 

He breaks off as the rest of the group launch into an eruption of jealousy, and patiently waits for them to settle down. 

“And something caught my eye, and suddenly all I could think about was that awful Donald Duck impression you were always working on. And the thought of it made me laugh just as much as it had every time I needed something to laugh about in Derry. So I thought I’d get it for you, just to say thank you,” Mike finishes, and holds something out to Richie.

Richie has been chuckling since Mike mentioned his terrible impression of Donald Duck, and his giggles only worsen as he takes the item Mike holds out to him. Eddie shifts closer to get a better look, and cracks up alongside everyone else as he realises what it is; a white fuzzy headband, with a plush version of Donald Duck’s familiar blue hat sewn to the top at a jaunty angle. 

“Oh, shit, Mike, I love it!” Richie laughs. He shoves it atop his head, the hairband further messing up his tousled curls, and takes a deep breath before he grins at Mike and lets loose a perfect Donald Duck impression.

Mike’s grin widens in delight. “Well listen to that!” he cries, and drags Richie into a hug. “No wonder you can afford such a stupidly big house!”

“Yeah, bro, I’m making those sweet Donald Duck bucks so I can rattle around alone in my stupid fucking mansion,” Richie snorts, and hugs Mike tightly in return. “Thanks, man. I’m gonna wear this all night. I’m serious,” he adds, aiming a pointed look at the group as he fusses with the hat. “You’re stuck with this glorious visage. Blame Mike, not me.”

“One point,” Stan says, raising a finger. The group all turn to him, and he frowns. “Why the _hell_ are we at Richie’s when we could have gone to Disney?”

“That’s our next trip!” Ben says with a beam. “Right? The Losers do Disney! I’m calling it! All in favour, say aye!”

The chorus of ayes echoes around Richie’s living room. Eddie spots their uber drive rolling her eyes as they all pile into her minivan, cackling and hollering and making plans for their next trip before they even get through this one, and resolves to tip her well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Losers have dinner, and Richie makes an announcement.

There’s not enough money in the world to tempt any of them into visiting a Chinese restaurant again, so Eddie is relieved to discover Richie and Bill have chosen their favourite Indian restaurant for dinner. 

He hasn’t tried much Indian food, what with his mom having decided he’s allergic to pretty much anything with a flavour spicier than ‘salt’, and he admits as much self-consciously as they all study their menus at the restaurant. 

He expects mockery. He doesn’t expect Richie giving him an unexpectedly soft look from the seat beside him. “What?” he asks, bristling pre-emptively, but Richie just shrugs.

“Sometimes I forget just how big a number good ol’ Mrs K did on you,” he says lightly.

“Here it comes, lemme guess - it makes you wish you hadn’t spent so much time fucking her, right?” Eddie spits in anticipation of his response, his shoulders still tense, and Richie pulls a ridiculously outraged face.

“How dare you, Eduardo! I could never regret all those months – nay, years! – I spent worshipping at Sonia Kaspbrak’s beautiful feet! She gave me the best times of my life!” 

His expression drops into something else as he looks at Eddie; the word that comes unexpectedly to mind is _wistful_ , as Richie studies him and produces a brief, lopsided smile. “I just wish she hadn’t treated you like you’re made of glass. She acted like you’re so fucking delicate, when you’re actually this angry little spitfire who could kick the crap out of anybody at a moment’s notice. It’s shitty, that’s all. That she could do that to you, just because she loved you kinda wrong.”

Eddie gapes at him in return. Richie’s eyes meet his after a moment, and he blinks, and ducks his head with a scowl. He runs a hand tiredly over his face, and offers a smile that is closer to a grimace.

“Wow, fuck. Sorry. You really don’t need me telling you about how your own mom treated you. Sorry, Eds. I’m too fucking tired to filter all this shit out.” His smile warps into something more teasing, and it is as though Eddie sees Richie backing away internally; shutters go up, closing off his feelings, and he resorts to what he knows best as he simpers at Eddie. “You’re just so cute, cute, cute, Eddie! You remind me of her!”

He leans closer, ensconcing himself against Eddie’s side, and Eddie expects him to continue in this vein – making kissy faces at him, or chucking at his cheeks the way he had done so often as kids – but instead he points out a couple of dishes on the menu. 

“Okay, so these two are probably the least likely to upset your sensitive li’l tummy. This one is tomato-y, and this one is a mango sauce. I remember you figuring out that you’re fine with bread, thanks to the grilled cheese texts that Stanley loved so much, but did you ever figure out if you’ve gotta steer clear of anything else?”

Eddie shakes his head dumbly, before he clears his throat and finds his voice. “Uh, I’m… I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure I’m not actually allergic to anything,” he says, heavily distracted by the way Richie is leaning into his space. He can feel the heat of Richie’s arm pressed against his shoulder, and he can smell his shampoo again as he turns to grin brightly at Eddie.

“I fucking knew it! Hey, awesome! Well, both of those come with rice, and I’ll split a naan bread with you, if you want?”

“Sure,” Eddie mumbles, and finally exhales when Richie moves back into his own space.

His head is spinning dizzily with the double whammy of Richie’s quick summation of Sonia’s Kaspbrak’s particular brand of terrified, overbearing love, and the searing brand of his physical presence against Eddie’s side. 

He can still feel a tingling where they touched. His brain is running circles around the phrase, _‘Loved you kinda wrong.’_

It’s not nearly enough to explain the way his mom had treated him. It couldn’t possibly cover years of mingled anxiety and affection; of fear and faux-illness, and babying, and sharp, desperate, clinging love.

But damn, it’s enough to let him know that Richie saw the Kaspbraks for the mess they were. That maybe he came closer than anybody else to understanding it all.

Eddie exhales, and methodically drinks until his glass is empty. He really doesn’t want to think about his mom right now.

They order with a very patient waitress. She asks Eddie what he wants, and he picks one of the meals Richie suggested. When she moves onto Richie, he orders the other one he had pointed out. Bill raises an eyebrow as the waitress walks away.

“Kuh-kinda tame compared to your usual,” he comments, but says no more as he heads toward the bar.

Eddie turns to shoot Richie a questioning look, and Richie shrugs. “This way, if you don’t like yours, we can swap and you can see if mine is any better without your tongue shrivelling up,” he explains, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world, before winking. “And it’s probably best if I spare you all my usual gastrointestinal responses tomorrow, huh? For the sake of your delicate sensibilities. I don’t want to fart you out of existence.”

“You’re so classy,” Eddie drawls, before nudging him lightly in the side. There is a warmth in his stomach with Richie’s words, a heat that swirls through him even before he eats anything. “You didn’t have to change your order for me. That’s really kind, man. Thanks.”

“Hey, whatever. It’s nothing,” Richie murmurs. He’s staring at the drinks menu as though it has all of his focus, but there is a flush to his cheeks.

Eddie smiles to himself, and gets to his feet. “First round is on me, right? I gotta beat Bill to the pass. Who wants what?” he asks, and heads out with their orders fixed in his mind.

He joins Bill at the bar, wriggling through the crowd of customers to worm his way to his side. Bill gives him a grin, and shifts along to make space for Eddie. 

“It wuh-wasn’t a real r-race, y’know,” Bill says. “Yuh-you don’t actually have to buy the drinks. Not when you guys are gu-guests. I didn’t fly across the country to be here. Let me get these.”

“You can get the next round,” Eddie says graciously. “I honour my debts. Even if they’re made up by an idiot.”

“He is an idiot,” Bill agrees. He nods slightly, and leans closer to add softly, “He’s b-been real guh-good to me recently, though, so I wuh-won’t complain about him.”

“How’s it going? Richie said… well. It doesn’t matter what he said. Are you okay?” Eddie asks, softening his voice in return. They shuffle nearer together, their heads ducking close like they’re conspiring. Eddie sees Bill’s eyes dart around the restaurant before returning to him, and he realises that he is looking out for signs of anybody listening in. 

It’s so strange, sharing his friends with the world.

Eddie doesn’t give a shit if the internet would go wild over rumours about William Denbrough’s relationship being in trouble; whatever the repercussions might be, he’ll swing at anybody who tries to come for Big Bill.

Bill’s eyes return to him, and he must realise why Eddie is suddenly scowling, because he smiles fondly. “It’s fine, Eddie. I’m juh-just checking,” he says mildly, and his tone relaxes Eddie’s building tension all at once. Bill, however, hesitates, and gives Eddie a pensive look. “Richie talked to you? What did he tell you?”

“Not much. Like, almost nothing, really,” Eddie says immediately. His anxiety spikes suddenly, and he wonders if he’s just got Richie in trouble.

Bill, though, raises his hands and offers a soft, tired smile, as though sensing Eddie’s growing panic. “I’m nuh-not mad. He can… I already told him he say wh-whatever he wants. It’s fine, I promise. I’m not gonna dictate wh-what he can and can’t say, and I know… well. You two are close,” Bill says with a small smile, that sets Eddie’s stomach squirming uncertainly. “I fuh-figured he’d tell _you_ , at least.”

Eddie blinks at him. “Me?” he asks dumbly.

Bill’s eyes crease at the corners with some unspoken amusement. “Yes, you,” he says patiently. “Who else? Look, it’s fine. I juh-just want to know what you already know, that’s a-all. It makes it easier to tell it.”

“Oh.” Eddie shrugs, and puts his hands into his pockets, holding his arms tight against his sides. His anxiety has faded with Bill’s calm reassurance, leaving something else in its place; something that leaves Eddie repressing the urge to squirm in his amused gaze. It is easier to let his attention settle on the bar than to meet Bill’s eyes. “He… he just mentioned that you’ve been staying with him for a little while. That’s all.”

“Oh-only a few days,” Bill says quickly. “Not, not long term. Only while… we’re t-trying to fuh-figure stuff out. Short term.”

Eddie nods, then tries for a smile as he feels his way through this. “You were just trying to call dibs on Richie’s best guest bedroom before we even got into town, right?” he teases, and Bill laughs softly.

“Fuck, you s-saw through me!” The smile drops from his face after a moment. Bill sighs, and begins toying with a napkin. 

“We’re… I duh-don’t… It’s complicated. I l-l-love her,” he forces out. “She’s amazing. And I know sh-she loves me too. We… we were working on a muh-movie together until recently, we only wrapped a f-few weeks ago, and we work so well together. But then we came home, and…”

“And?” Eddie prompts gently. Bill drags his hands through his hair, and his wedding ring catches the light for a brief moment.

“And eh-everything feels different now we’re not on set together. It’s st-stupid, Eddie. We can work together and get along juh-just fine, but then we come home, and either, either we rub each other the wr-wrong way and argue all the time, or… or we just drift apart, and duh-don’t see each other at all. And I… I feel relieved, wh-when I don’t have to see her,” he admits weakly as his eyes screw up. “Because I know if I _did_ see her at home we’d be fighting. Th-that’s fucked up, isn’t it? Our…our working life is easier than a-actually living together is, and that’s nu-not right, is it?”

“What are you arguing about?” asks Eddie. He settles a hand on Bill’s shoulder and squeezes softly, rubbing in tiny circles, and feels some of the tension drop from him.

“Everything. Fuh-fucking everything. Where we’re going in life. Who used the last of the de-detergent and didn’t get more. Everything in between that.” Bill wipes a hand over his face with a grim expression. “And it’s all the fucking t-time.”

“Is it just since Derry?”

Bill shakes his head with a sigh. “It’s not new. Even before, we… we realised we were hiding th-things from each other, a-and… bickering, all the time, and… then Derry… Th-that might actually be the worst thing about this. Fuck. It’s been worse since Derry, y-yeah, but I was already fucking it up be-before we went back. I can’t even blame this on the fucking clown. It’s _me_.”

“But Derry changed us all,” Eddie murmurs. “Made us see everything differently, I think. Made us think about what we really want.” He finds himself thumbing absently over the patch of skin where his own wedding ring used to lie. “Whether we were ready to or not.”

“Y-yeah.” Bill knuckles at his eyes, then gives Eddie the ghost of a smile. “I guh-guess. We’re not all as brave as you, though, Eddie.”

“Fuck that,” Eddie snaps, and squeezes Bill’s shoulder tightly. “You’re plenty fucking brave, Billy! You killed…” He glances hurriedly at the crowd around them, and bites his tongue. “You’ve done lots of brave things. All you have to do now is think about what you want, and what Audra wants. The important thing is that you deserve to be happy, Bill. You know that, right? Both of you. Whatever that means.”

Bill nods silently, his throat working for a moment, before he speaks. “I know. I th-think I do know what it muh-means. We’re trying.” He pauses, and sighs. “But I think I n-need to ask her to be honest with me. I th-think she’s trying to sp-spare my feelings. I know I’m trying to spare hers.”

“It’s a nice sentiment, but it doesn’t help,” Eddie murmurs. He throws his arm around Bill’s shoulders and draws him closer, smiling sadly as Bill turns to lean into his hold. “Not in the long run. It just… prolongs everything.”

Bill nods quietly again, and hugs Eddie tightly, before pulling away with a sigh. He produces a wobbly smile. “I kn-know. I’ll… I’ll have a talk with her. After this wuh-weekend.” Bright blue eyes fix on Eddie earnestly. “Could I t-talk to you about it, if I need to? Or muh-message you?”

“Any time,” Eddie assures him. “Day or night. I know what it’s like, Billy. Nothing’s ever too small to talk to me about. I get it.”

Bill smiles at him, apparently relieved, and then plasters on a grin. “Hey. Let’s get wruh-wrecked tonight, huh? You got everyone’s order?”

“Yup.”

“How about we add some shots onto all of that?”

Eddie grins wickedly. “Fuck yeah!”

***

Eddie is delighted to find that the food is delicious, when it arrives. It feels like it takes forever to be brought out to them, but that might have more to do with the number of drinks they get through while they wait.

The shots vanish in no time at all, all thrown back with cheers within seconds. After that, they turn to the drinks they’d actually requested, and raise them in a toast; “To the Losers Club!” says Mike, beaming as the rest of them cheer and clink their glasses together. 

Richie slams his drink, which sets Beverly laughing and following suit, and then all of a sudden gazes are met, and challenges are issued, and all the drinks are downed. 

It doesn’t bode well, but Eddie’s laughing too much to care. 

True to his word, Bill gets the next round in, and the night continues in the same sort of vein.

Despite his giddiness, when the food arrives, Eddie feels the same old stab of hesitance as he looks down at it. It looks delicious, sure, and it smells amazing, but… _’But what if,’_ , that same tiresome voice shrieks in the back of his mind. _’What if you really are allergic to it? What if you take a bite and your throat swells up? What if this is what finishes you off? You’re so delicate!’_

Eddie startles as Richie leans closer. His own meal is in front of him, steaming and inviting, but Richie leaves it untouched in favour of leaning his elbow on the table and turning into Eddie’s space with a small grin. “You got an epi-pen on you?” he asks, and Eddie’s chest tightens anxiously at the idea that Richie has seen through him so easily.

“Yeah. Stupid, I know,” Eddie mutters. He jabs viciously at his meal with his fork and refuses to meet Richie’s eyes. “There’s nothing physically wrong with me.”

“Damn right there’s nothing wrong with that tight little body of yours,” Richie leers, and startles a laugh out of Eddie, even as he rolls his eyes. 

Richie shifts even closer, and drops his voice so none of their chattering friends can hear him. “But mental trauma? That’s, like, an obligatory part of being a Loser, Eduardo. We all got _that_ out the wazoo.”

“But I’m almost _certain_ I don’t have any allergies!” Eddie protests.

Richie shrugs. He tears off a piece of naan and pops it into his mouth, chewing with his lips spread into an obnoxious smile. “Right. But there’s nothing wrong with being safe, though, right? Especially if it makes a vanilla little dude like you feel better about getting _experimental_ with me,” he smirks, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Fuck off!” Eddie gives him a hard shove to the shoulder with a scowl.

Richie turns a wide-eyed expression of innocence onto him. Eddie doesn’t buy it for a moment but when he speaks, his words are surprisingly sincere. “Hey, I’m serious! We all got our issues, man. What’s the problem with having an epi-pen around if it makes you feel better? It’s giving you peace of mind, right? And at least this way if you _do_ suddenly discover some kinda allergy, you’re ready for it.”

“But I _won’t_ – I shouldn’t need it!”

“You shouldn’t have had forty years of trauma!” Richie retorts in an incongruously cheerful voice. “But here we are. I get it, man. I shouldn’t get rock-hard every time I think about your mom, but again, here we are. We gotta play the hand we’re dealt.”

“You’re disgusting,” Eddie says witheringly, and to his annoyance, Richie merely nods his agreement.

“I’m the fucking worst! You wouldn’t believe the nasty shit I did with Mrs K – okay, okay,” he whines, breaking off as Eddie shoves him again. 

He levels a warm gaze at Eddie, and his eyes are somehow mesmerising behind his glasses as he smiles softly. “You’re right. You shouldn’t need it. But right now, it seems like you do, and that sucks. But hey, maybe in a while you won’t? Maybe if you can get super comfortable trying new things and seeing that they’re not gonna kill you, then you can leave it behind. So if having an epi-pen with you right now gets you to a point where you feel comfortable without it, I say it’s worth it.”

“I guess. I know it’s still only early days,” Eddie allows with a sigh. “I suppose maybe I can just… keep it around until it expires, and then see how I feel about it. Maybe by then I won’t feel like I need to replace it?”

“There’s my Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie grins.

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie sighs, but he tempers it with a sigh, and gives Richie a nudge to the ribs. “Since when are you full of good advice?”

“I have my moments,” Richie says, self-importantly. “I’ll have you know I only talk a steaming pile of shit ninety-nine percent of the time. Hey, you wanna give it to me?”

Eddie’s eyebrows rise. “What? Give – what?”

“Your epi-pen. I could have it ready for you. Be prepared to be, like,” he mimes thrusting the imaginary device into Eddie’s chest with a vicious movement. “Yah! At a moment’s notice. Right? Like in _Pulp Fiction_!”

“Okay, first of all, if I _do_ need you to use it, don’t push it into my fucking heart!” Eddie protests, but he’s chuckling. “It goes in my thigh, okay? Into the muscle.”

“Oh. Well, shit, that’s less exciting,” Richie sighs. He settles a hand on his own thigh, and prods beside his knee. “Here?”

“No.”

“Here?” Richie movies his hand higher on his leg, shifting around to his inner thigh, and Eddie shakes his head.

He hesitates, then sets his hand onto Richie’s thigh. Richie freezes in place, and the muscle tenses tight beneath his hand as Eddie squeezes lightly at the middle of his outer thigh. “Here,” he murmurs.

Richie nods silently, wide-eyed and his head bobbing frenetically for a moment, before his mouth splits in a wild grin. “Okay. Got it. So here’s the plan: you put some curry in your mouth while I rip off your pants and get ready to spear your thigh, just in case.”

“You don’t need to take off my pants, idiot!” Eddie laughs, and Richie gives him a wounded look.

“That’s _never_ been true,” he sighs. He nods towards Eddie’s meal after a second, and his comically hurt look morphs into something more encouraging. “Go on. It’ll be fine. It won’t kill you. Hell, maybe you’ll even like it, Eds! Live a little!”

With Richie watching him patiently, Eddie sets his jaw and takes a tiny bite of the curry. The taste of tomatoes and cream and the mildest of spices spread across his tongue, and he smiles instinctively as he swallows. “It’s good!”

“Aww. Baby’s first curry,” Richie chuckles. He reaches out to ruffle Eddie’s hair, and earns himself a mutinous look as Eddie dodges away from him. 

“Fuck off! I’m serious, Rich! Get your hand near me again and see what happens!” Eddie spits, and Richie merely laughs delightedly in response.

“Says the guy who _just_ felt up my thigh! I see how it is! You can touch me, but I’m not allowed to get any sweet spaghetti action? That doesn’t exactly seem fair!”

“That was in the name of teaching you basic CPR. That was medicinal touching,” Eddie sniffs, and Richie lets out a squawk of laughter.

“Medicinal touching! Yeah, I bet it’ll cure what ails me. Hey, any swelling?” he asks abruptly, before a smirk spreads across his face. “Beyond the usual priapic delight at seeing me, obviously?”

Eddie huffs, but takes stock of himself; his breathing is fine, his tongue isn’t burning or itching, and nothing out of the ordinary seems to be happening to his throat. He exhales, and gives Richie a small shake of his head. “Nothing.”

“Awesome! D’you want to try mine, then?” Richie offers, and pushes his plate towards him. “I haven’t touched it yet, I promise. You’ll get no germs from me, no sir!”

Eddie hesitates, and then, buoyed by Richie’s encouraging grin, he reaches out to try Richie’s mango sauce. 

It is delicious.

He ends up trying a bite from everyone’s plate, by the time they’re finished eating. Maybe it’s the rush of fearlessness that comes from being around the Losers, or maybe it’s the warmth of the alcohol that gives him the balls to live a little, but he finds that his usual worries about sharing food fade into silence in his head.

Besides, these people aren’t just anybody. They’re his best friends.

That doesn’t mean that he isn’t furious when Ben’s, “It’s not _that_ hot,” curry turns out to be so hideously spicy that even the tiniest bite sets sweat pouring from him, while an inferno rages in his mouth. 

The true fever of his anguished ranting is lost as he hastily downs the rest of his beer, and then Ben’s too, in the name of cooling his mouth down. Everything is kind of a blur for a while after that, as most of the table scramble to help him amidst their laughter.

Shortly after his tongue stops feeling as though it has been set on fire, with Ben still apologising profusely for underestimating his own ability to consume chillies, their phones all ping. 

Everybody loses their shit all over again when they realise Stan has smugly sent them all a video of Eddie shovelling raita dip into his mouth while simultaneously calling Ben an asshole. 

Even Eddie bursts into laughter at the sight of his own red-faced fury, though he does his best to throw the remaining dip at Stan in retribution. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie’s shoulders to hold him back, and howls with laughter against his ear.

Eddie makes Stan buys the next round, and he returns with doubles for everyone. As far as Eddie is concerned, it is the least he can do.

The long-suffering waitstaff clear the table and take their orders for dessert, and just as Eddie is about to dig into his ice cream, he realises that Richie is practically vibrating in his seat beside him.

This is not unusual for Richie, of course. Eddie remembers sharing the hammock with him countless times, and he recalls enduring the swaying induced by Richie’s ceaseless squirming with bad grace and lectures about motion sickness.

But there is something worrying about the way he is fidgeting right now; his feet drum restlessly on the floor, and both hands are working on shredding his napkin with trembling fingers while his eyes stare blankly at his dessert.

“Hey.” Eddie leans into his space, mirroring his movement from earlier, and Richie jumps. He gives Eddie a shaky smile, too big to believe, and Eddie frowns in concern. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, of course I’m fine,” Richie claims, before he falls silent. He rests his head in his hands and lets out a muffled sigh, then raises his head. Eddie is astonished to realise that his eyes are watery. “No, actually, that’s bullshit, Eds. Sorry.”

“What – Richie,” Eddie says quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. There is nothing wrong with me whatsoever,” Richie mutters pensively. “Right?”

Eddie watches his eyes glance away from him, looking to his other side, and as Eddie leans to follow in their direction, he is somehow unsurprised to find that Stan is watching silently.

Richie looks to Stan. He nods, and offers a small, patient smile, and Richie lets out a humourless huff of laughter. He clears his throat, and then dings his spoon obnoxiously off his bowl in a sharp rhythm.

“Hey, guys, shut the fuck up for a second, okay?” he asks, and produces an awful attempt at a smile as everybody turns to look at him. “I, uh. I got something to say.”

“What is it, honey?” Beverly asks. Eddie leans back, and realises she’s smiling softly, and there is such warmth in her eyes as she gazes at Richie. Her mouth crooks at the corner, as though she’s holding back some hidden excitement. 

She looks, he realises, as though she’s impatient to hear whatever Richie has to say; as though she’s been waiting for him to say something for a very long time.

Come to think of it… Eddie glances between his friends, and realises they are all smiling expectantly, without a trace of surprise. 

As though they know exactly what he is about to say.

Eddie turns back to Richie, feeling hopelessly lost. Richie looks around at all of them, his eyes raking around the table until he meets Eddie’s confused gaze; his eyes fix hurriedly on his ice cream, and he clears his throat again. It sounds painful.

“Uh. I – god. I should have told you all something, like, a hundred years ago,” he mutters. His fingers tighten on the spoon, clanking it against the bowl softly as they tremble, before he abandons it in favour of reaching out to take a huge gulp of his whiskey. 

He then winces at his glass, and sets it aside as he hurriedly adds, “Fuck, I don’t want you to think I’m only telling you now because I’m – I want to tell you, okay? I’m not just drunk, I swear. I really want you all to know.”

“We won’t know it until you actually say it,” Stan murmurs, and it sounds pointed, and sharp, but his hand closes over Richie’s, and Richie lets out a genuine laugh. He squeezes Stan’s hand, and nods shakily.

“Right as always, Stan the Man. Fuck. Okay. I don’t… Fuck.” He ducks his head, and wipes irritably at a tear as it trickles out from behind his smudged glasses. When he lifts his head, he looks simultaneously the most terrified and the most determined Eddie has ever seen him. “I’m gay.” 

His eyes glance between all of them, nervous and skittering like a horse about to bolt. “I’m super fucking gay. The gayest. I have been for, like, for-fucking-ever, and I’ve always been way too chickenshit to tell anyone. You guys are the first to know.”

He lets out a sharp whoosh of air, and plasters a trembling, sick smile onto his face. “ _Okay_ , so, like, that’s done,” he says quickly, and scrambles to pick up his spoon with fingers that are shaking too much to actually grip it. “No big deal, right? Now let’s all eat our goddamn ice cream before it melts, okay?”

Eddie stares in astonishment as everybody else laughs softly, and chairs squeak as they are scooted back to let people rush towards Richie. 

He watches dumbly as Bev reaches him first, and drags him to his feet to pull him into a tight hug. She tugs on Richie’s collar, and he obediently bends down to let her whisper in his ear; whatever she says, it makes him let out a bark of watery laughter, and he wraps his arms tightly around her. 

Everybody crowds him as Eddie’s head spins, and he finds he cannot look away from him. 

It is as though he is seeing Richie through new eyes. He is crying, he realises, his eyes squeezing shut as Mike embraces him, but there is a wobbly smile on his face. Some of his tension has dropped away with everyone’s reactions, and he moves as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders as he lets everybody pass him between them for hugs and grins and kisses to the cheek. 

He looks worn out, as though he’s been put through the wringer, and the dark rings beneath his eyes are starker than ever, but he looks happy, too, Eddie thinks dumbly.

But after a moment, Richie’s eyes find Eddie, and Eddie’s stomach turns guiltily at the beseeching look he aims his way. He realises he is the only person still seated at the table, his hands clinging onto the tablecloth and his mouth hanging open as he watches, dumbfounded.

“Eddie?” Richie mumbles, and there’s a miserable pleading behind his voice that Eddie would immediately give anything to never hear again. 

He kicks himself into action, and rises to drag Richie into a trembling hug. Richie lets out a sob, and sags in Eddie’s arms to bury his face in his neck. Eddie shushes him softly as he feels a tell-tale dampness against his skin. 

His fingertips dig into Richie’s back through his shirt as he clings to him. He squeezes his eyes shut as they embrace, and his mind turns circles over something he’s absolutely sure he was the only person not to already know.

Everyone else seems delighted, sure. They seem overjoyed to hear Richie open up. 

But none of them seem surprised.

He blinks in astonishment, and lets his lips brush against Richie’s ear as he says the first words that come to mind. “Of course there’s nothing wrong with you,” he murmurs. “There never has been.”

“Yeah?” Richie whispers, and he sounds so lost, so _broken_ that Eddie’s heart surges in his chest.

“Of course not!” he snaps, before a grin tugs at his lips, and he cannot resist the urge to add, “Apart from all the things that are _definitely_ wrong with you, I mean. But being gay’s not one of them, Richie.”

Eddie hears somebody produce a shocked noise with his words – probably Ben, he thinks; that boy’s heart is so big, and so soft – but Richie laughs hysterically against his throat, and pulls away to grin at him. His face is pink and blotchy, and wet with tears, but he’s beaming. 

“Eddie gets off a good one!” he cries, and Eddie thinks the bright tone behind his words might just be gratitude. “Hey, c’mon, then! Bring it on! Kick me while I’m down! Name _one_ other thing that’s wrong with me, I double-fucking-dare you!”

Eddie meets his gaze solidly, and for a second, it is as though he can see right through him. A thought floats through his brain unbidden, in his best approximation of Richie’s voice; _’I love those guys, but they’re handling me with kid gloves. Eddie wouldn’t do that to me, right?’_

Richie’s eyes shine with hope behind his glasses, which are tear-stained and smudged beyond belief. Eddie’s fingers twitch with the urge to pull them off and clean them for him, and his brain is freewheeling just enough that he finds himself giving in to it. 

He plucks Richie’s glasses from his face with a delicate gesture, and grins as Richie’s mirth crumples into astonishment. _’You’re damn right I wouldn’t do that to you,’_ Eddie thinks. _’I’ll call your fucking bluff.’_

He carefully wipes a napkin over his glasses, but his eyes are fixed on Richie’s face as he smirks up at him. “All right, dipshit. Your British Guy Voice. _That’s_ wrong. You still sound like an American asshole, just one using stupid words.” 

He slides Richie’s glasses back onto his face, and softens his smile as Richie blinks helplessly at him. 

A moment seems to stretch between them as they look at each other, and Eddie could not define it if a million dollars were on the line. 

His heart is pounding, battering against his ribcage as though it is suddenly too big to be held by it, and his eyes flicker restlessly over Richie’s face, taking in his features; his nose is red, and his lips are trembling, as though words are fighting to escape, and his eyes are fixed on Eddie’s, wide and shining and somehow fearful, as though Richie is just registering that this has all really happened. 

He pulls Richie closer, and wraps his arms tightly around him, suddenly wanting so badly to shelter him from the world. “Thanks for telling me,” he whispers against his ear.

Richie nods against his shoulder. His own arms are like a vice around Eddie, but he doesn’t mind a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” he mumbles in return. “I… I wanted, Eddie, god, I wanted to, but…”

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, and his stomach clenches with the truth of it. “It’s okay. I _know_.”

They do eventually all turn back to their desserts, after Richie has been thoroughly embraced by every single one of them. He falls into his seat beside Eddie and slumps down as though winded, his head tilted back against the chair as he stares at the ceiling. 

He says nothing, merely blinking upward sightlessly for a few long minutes while everyone eats around him.

Eventually, Eddie’s patience runs thin, and he elbows him lightly in the side. “Your ice cream’s gonna melt.”

“Mm.”

“You hate melty ice cream.”

“Mm.”

“It’s really good,” Eddie says, turning to pointedly scoop some into his mouth with an appreciative noise. When Richie’s eyes dart to him, he makes a show of cleaning the spoon obnoxiously with his tongue.

Richie groans. “Gross,” he mumbles, before sitting upright. He looks around the table, glancing at their friends as they all eat and chat and laugh together, before saying quietly, “Did I really just tell everyone I’m…?”

“Yup.”

Richie nods in return, his head jerking erratically and his eyes fixedly staring at his ice cream. “Uh-huh. Cool. Awesome.”

“You okay?”

Richie’s lips part, and Eddie watches the colour suddenly drain from his face. He shoves his chair back abruptly and clamps a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, I’m gonna -”

He bolts off in the direction of the washrooms, stumbling a little as he goes. The table falls silent, and Stan gets to his feet before anybody else can react. “He’ll be fine,” he says, dabbing his napkin over his mouth in a fussy little gesture. “Vomit is his usual coping mechanism. I’ll go check on him.”

“Should we…?” Eddie asks, but Stan just gives him a reassuring smile, and walks away.

The rest of them exchange glances, and then carry on eating. 

When a few minutes have gone by with no sign of them returning, Eddie huffs a sigh. He picks up his spoon, swaps his empty bowl with Richie’s, and starts eating his abandoned ice cream. 

“What?” he asks irritably, speaking through a mouthful when he realises Ben is chuckling at him. “It’s getting runny and it’s too good to waste!”

“You’re so good to him,” Ben teases. “So caring! I get it - _he_ runs off to hurl, so _you_ make sure he won’t find anything that might make him even queasier when he comes back. You’re an angel.”

“I’m an asshole, and he knew that when he became my friend again,” Eddie reminds him, and jabs his spoon pointedly at Ben. “He went into this with his eyes open.”

“He had his eyes open, sure,” Ben agrees with a warm smile. He shrugs, and raises his glass to his lips. “But he’s practically blind, remember? I really don’t think he saw you coming.”

Something inside Eddie’s chest twists painfully, and he scowls as heat bursts through him. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demands.

Ben does not answer immediately. He takes a long drink, his eyes fixed on Eddie as though assessing him, before he leans closer, moving behind Beverly where she sits between them. He lowers his voice, and instead of answering Eddie’s question, asks, “You really didn’t know, did you? About Richie?”

Eddie knows Beverly is listening in when she glances at him and gives him a small smile, but she keeps talking to Bill and Mike. “Uh,” he says eloquently, and shakes his head. “No. I had no idea.”

“Not even back then?” Ben probes delicately, and Eddie racks his memory.

He remembers Richie talking about girls a _lot_. Almost constantly, if Eddie’s own mother could be made to fit into that category. He remembers Richie forever swooning over their classmates, and falling for a different girl every week; loudly debating who had the prettiest hair, the perkiest tits, or the sweetest ass, as though any one of them would have looked twice at this gangly, bug-eyed Loser.

Eddie also remembers seeing those girls and feeling a flash of something hot and rancid curling in his gut; something he had never been able to identify at the time, but now he knows all too well what he had been feeling.

Jealousy. 

Not of Richie, for trying endlessly to charm them with his motor mouth, but of _them_ , for so effortlessly stealing Richie’s attention.

He had never dared to examine the whole jumbled mess of feelings further. He had made sure it all stayed very simple.

Richie liked to chase after girls. That was… safe.

 _Bad_. But safe. 

But Richie never got anywhere with those girls, and that was safe, too. It meant Richie always ended up back at Eddie’s side without Eddie having to beg for it.

He also remembers that Richie never talked about those girls when it was just the two of them together. 

It was different when they were in a group. When anybody else was there, Richie would not shut up about them, endlessly rhapsodising about their beguiling ways to anybody within earshot.

But when it was just Richie and Eddie alone together, things were different. It was as though all the girls he lusted after so desperately just fell out of his head. 

He remembers them lying side-by-side in the hammock, reading comics with their legs tangled and Eddie’s head tucked on Richie’s chest. He remembers Richie’s free hand shyly toying with his hair, curling strands around his fingers and scratching ever-so-lightly over the back of his neck in a way which made him shiver. He remembers hoping Richie would never stop. 

Neither of them ever spoke about it.

He remembers thinking, without really knowing why, that this was _dangerous_. That talking about things like this would be even more dangerous. Especially in a place like Derry, full of people like Henry Bowers.

And Sonia Kaspbrak.

He remembers headlines screaming about AIDS, and his mom worrying constantly that he was getting sick, and the clown looking into his thoughts and taking the form of a diseased leper to torture him.

So yeah. Sure. Maybe being close to Richie like that was dangerous.

But it wasn’t _bad_. 

Spending time alone with Richie had never been bad.

He sighs, feeling small and stupid as Ben watches him. He had never allowed himself to think about Richie that way. Not Richie, or anybody else. 

Not even himself.

He doesn’t know what to tell Ben, so he settles for shaking his head.

Ben nods thoughtfully, and Eddie is relieved to see no judgement in his eyes. He offers him a kind smile, and Eddie is struck all over again by just how sweet Ben is. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay? He definitely didn’t want you to know. _Us_ to know,” he corrects self-consciously. 

“Yeah, but the rest of you all saw through him, right?”

Ben looks around the table with an assessing gaze, and nods after a moment. “Yeah. I think the rest of us all knew. Well, we suspected, anyway.” He chuckles, and runs a hand thoughtfully over his chin. “I really didn’t think he’d ever actually say it, but he kind of didn’t have to.”

“So why couldn’t I see it?” The words escape Eddie without him really meaning them to, and he sighs, disgruntled, as Ben gives him a soft look.

“I think at least part of it is that we had a better view of it than you did.”

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“We were outside of it all, y’know? Sometimes you can see things more clearly, from the outside,” Ben murmurs. He reaches out to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder, swaying slightly. “And I think I had an advantage over everyone else, anyway. I guess I could see it in Richie because I already knew what it looked like.”

“What it – wait,” Eddie protests. He rubs a hand over his forehead as his mind buzzes. “What _what_ looked like?”

Ben smiles dreamily. “Well, for me it was Beverly, right? And for Richie -”

“- Ben,” Bev says quickly. Her eyes dart to Eddie, and then she leans back between them, gently guiding Ben back into his own seat. She turns to murmur something to him, hiding her face from Eddie for a moment, and when she turns back to Eddie, Ben leans around her and sighs.

“Sorry, Eddie,” he mumbles. He gives Eddie a hangdog look, and apologetically waves his glass at him. “I guess I’m more drunk than I thought.”

“Right. Yeah. It’s fine,” Eddie says woodenly. His brain feels too big for his skull, throbbing painfully as his thoughts circle sluggishly around Ben’s words. 

“Eddie,” Beverly says, her voice low. She rests her hand on his, and gives it a squeeze. He turns his hand over automatically beneath hers, and they link fingers as Eddie stares at the melted remains of Richie’s ice cream. “You okay, honey?”

“Yeah.” Eddie forces a smile, and he can tell Bev isn’t buying it, but she just squeezes his hand again.

“You want to talk?”

“No,” he mumbles.

“Okay.” Bev nods, and loosens their hands to pat his lightly. “But you know where I am if you change your mind. And you can tell me anything you need to, okay?”

“Okay.”

Eddie stares blankly at the half-empty bowl for a long moment, allowing the chatter of their friends to wash over him, then gets to his feet as his brain fizzes restlessly. “I’m going to check on them,” he tells the world at large, and walks away.

He approaches the bathrooms on autopilot, feeling as though Ben has just handed him a puzzle piece that he’s left turning over and over, wondering where it fits. It feels important, even through the drunken haze that has settled like fog over his mind.

He feels as though he could piece something together, if he tried hard enough.

He also feels as though part of him already _has_. That maybe, on some level, he has known what it is all along.

Eddie feels so stupid right now, his thoughts dulled by alcohol, but he feels like he’s standing on the precipice of something. 

Something huge, and scary, and wonderful.

There’s a phrase for it, he thinks absently as he walks through the restaurant. For that feeling of standing on the edge of a drop, and wanting nothing more than to leap into it, despite the consequences.

It feels less terrifying to focus on trying to remember the phrase he means rather than on the enormous, confusing thoughts behind it, so he wracks his brain as he moves. 

He’s just convinced himself that it’s something French when he spots Richie and Stan standing outside the washrooms, hugging so tightly that Eddie feels as though they could fuse together.

He stops in place and watches them for a moment. They don’t notice him, even when they pull apart. 

Stan breaks the hug, but he doesn’t go far; he merely takes a step away from Richie, and rests his hands on his shoulder. Richie’s face is flushed, and damp, and Eddie suspects he’s freshened up after whatever biological distress his confession has wrought from him by splashing water on his face.

Stan, on the other hand, is beaming at Richie, his face lit up as he squeezes his shoulders. “I mean it. I’m so proud of you,” he says, and his words tease a flustered smile from Richie, who ducks his head.

“Jeez, man. I mean, you shouldn’t be. It took me long enough, right?”

“You didn’t _have_ to do this,” Stan says earnestly. “Nobody was forcing you to.”

“Right. There was just the crushing weight of my self-loathing hanging over me at all times,” Richie chuckles weakly. He drops his eyes, and asks Stan’s shoes, “What if I never get the guts to tell anybody else?”

Stan’s lips purse thoughtfully, and he takes his hand back. He pushes his hands into his pockets, before shrugging lithe shoulders in a loose gesture that speaks to just how much alcohol Stan has had. “Eh, fuck everybody else,” he says easily. “If they’re not a Loser or Loser-affiliated, they don’t matter. Tell whoever you want. _Don’t_ tell whoever you want. Nobody has a _right_ to know. But you know what your next step needs to be, right?”

Richie’s head shoots up, and he gives Stan a wild-eyed look of terror. “Stan…”

Stan nods, his lips flattening as he meets Richie’s gaze implacably. “Richie.”

“Don’t - don’t fucking push this, man. It’s too soon.”

“Too soon!” Stan echoes scornfully. “Remind me how old we all are, again? And we’re not getting any younger!”

“Oh, fuck you, Stan! I _just_ came out!” Richie hisses, flinging his arms out emphatically, and Stan is startled into silence, his mouth snapping closed with a click. “You don’t fucking need to remind me how old I am, man! I know damn well it’s taken me forever to get the balls to do this! Believe me, I felt every goddamn minute of the past forty years passing me by!”

Guilt courses over Stan’s face as Richie scowls at him. “Rich, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“– Do you think I _wanted_ to wait this long? Maybe you think I was enjoying lying to everyone I know? Are you picturing me being all warm and cosy in the fucking closet?”

Stan’s face morphs into a mask of horror as Richie whisper-yells at him. “Richie, look, honestly, I’m sorry. I… I know this was hard for you.”

Richie glares in return. “No, c’mon, if you’re so concerned about time passing me by – when _should_ I have done this? Because if you went to the effort of sending me a carefully planned schedule I guess I must have missed it! I’m real sorry to be such an inconvenience to you by dragging my heels like this!”

“You’re not – I’m just -”

“- C’mon, fill me in! Where _should_ I be, according to your agenda? Should I be adopting a kid right now?”

“Rich, I’m sorry,” Stan says quietly, and Eddie realises that tears are welling up in his eyes. The deep shame rolling from him seems to extinguish the fire of Richie’s anger. “I’m such an ass. I’m sorry. I just thought… I just wanted to encourage you.”

Richie watches him for a moment as he squirms in place, his face flushed with guilt and embarrassment, before he sighs. “I know,” he mumbles, and drags a hand tiredly over his face. “I know, man. And I appreciate the sentiments, but you know how hard this was for me, Stan. Back the hell off for a minute, okay?”

“Okay,” Stan mumbles. His hands are awkwardly twining together as he looks to Richie. He flashes him a quick, faint smile. “I’m so proud of you. You deserve to be happy. That’s all, Rich. I just want you to be happy. I didn’t mean to push so much.”

“Yeah, well, you still did it, though. Look, I’m happy,” Richie murmurs, and sighs when Stan pulls away and gives him a dubious look. “I’m okay! I promise. Hell, maybe I’ll be even happier now that I’ve done this, right?”

“I don’t want you to think this wasn’t enough,” Stan blurts hurriedly, as though the words are fighting their way from him. “Because of course it is. I hope you know that? I don’t want you to think that telling us wasn’t enough, just because this asshole doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Look, it’s fine,” Richie says firmly. He unhands Stan, and offers a smile tinged with exhaustion. “I’ve done what I can for now. Everybody’s just getting used to Gay Richie, okay? Including me. Give me some time to, uh, to process it, and then I’ll try to think about -”

His eyes track over to Eddie and his words fall away mid-sentence, replaced with a manic grin as Eddie raises a hand in an uncertain greeting. “Hey, Eddie Spaghetti! What, did the party get boring without us? You missed us so much you had to come crash our little side-joint here? Well, I dunno, it’s pretty exclusive, but I got a plus-one with your name on it if you want it!”

He winces a little when he falls silent, as though hearing his own panicked words for the first time when they leave his mouth, and Eddie watches his eyes dart sidelong to the quietly amused curl of Stan’s mouth.

“I came to check on you,” Eddie says, before Richie can ramble any further. “You feeling okay?”

Richie puffs out his chest and shoves his hands into his pockets. When he speaks, it is in his Southern Belle Voice, his words higher and breathier. “Little ol’ me? Why I do declare, Edward, you are just the sweetest thing to ask, but of course I’m fine, sugar!”

“Vomit came out of his nose,” Stan adds helpfully, and smirks as both Richie and Eddie wince. “He almost waterboarded himself trying to rinse it out.”

“Smooth,” Eddie chuckles as Richie scowls at Stan. He fixes his eyes on him, and tries again. “Seriously, Rich. You good?”

Richie hesitates for a moment, then flashes Eddie a quick smile. He nods, and bounces lightly on his heels with his shoulders hunched and his hands clenched in his pockets. “ _Seriously_ , Eds. I’m peachy. I just needed a quick trip to the vomitorium, Roman-style. Now I’m ready to continue the feast. C’mon, let’s get back there. I got ice cream waiting for me!”

“Uh, no, you don’t,” Eddie calls as Richie strides past him. “I ate it. Or I ate most of it, anyway. And the rest is probably a puddle by now.”

Richie whirls back to give him a comically wounded look. “Jesus Christ, Eddie! I leave the table for five fucking minutes and you snarf my dessert? What the fuck, dude?”

“It was delicious,” Eddie calls back, unrepentant in the face of Richie’s evasiveness. “And it deserved better than being left to melt because the asshole that ordered it can’t handle being real with his friends for _five fucking minutes_ without hurling.”

“Ouch!” laughs Richie delightedly. He bounces on his heels again, then backs away, yelling, “Well it sucks to be you, because I bought doughnuts for us, and I’m going to lick every single one of them as soon as we get home!”

He springs away, with Eddie’s cry of, “You’re fucking disgusting!” rattling after him. Stan smiles tightly at an older lady as she side-steps around them, aiming an alarmed look at them as she heads past into the bathroom.

“Shall we?” Stan says, and begins heading after Richie, but Eddie holds out a hand to stop him.

“Wait. He’s okay, right?”

“He just told you he was.”

“That’s not an answer and you know it,” scowls Eddie. 

Stan nods, giving Eddie a thoughtful look. “All right. He told you he’s okay, so why do you think I would disagree with him?”

“You’re his oldest friend,” Eddie says pointedly. He drags his hands through his hair, then straightens it self-consciously as he avoids Stan’s eyes. “He’s closer to you than anybody else.”

“Is that what you think?” Stan asks, and his voice is so soft that Eddie finds his gaze dragged back to his, helpless against it. Stan smiles at him, his lips curling in quiet amusement. “ _No_ , Eddie.”

“Oh, fuck you, Stan,” Eddie mutters, but his heart isn’t in it. His heart is, in fact, thudding in his chest.

Stan laughs brightly. “Okay. You really want my opinion? I think he’s in shock. I think he’s wanted to tell us about himself for a very long time, and I think he told us to come to L.A. so he could do it on his home turf. But I don’t know if he was convinced he was actually going to be able to do it until he’d done it.” 

He rolls his eyes, the gesture full of fondness, and adds, “I also think he would prefer to rip out his own fingernails rather than actually have a meaningful conversation about his feelings. Right now, at least. So we’ll get the full Richie Tozier deflection-based stand-up routine for a while, until he stops panicking. _Then_ he’ll tell you how he’s feeling. But you already know all that,” he adds lightly, his eyes fixed on Eddie.

He’s right. It is insufferable. 

Eddie puffs his chest up defensively beneath Stan’s curious gaze. “You don’t have to be such a condescending prick about it. Why would I ask if I knew?” he mutters, and Stan bursts into laughter. Eddie wilts in the face of it.

“We’re all in our forties!” Stan chokes out, when he’s gathered himself enough to speak through his giggles. He shakes his head, still laughing. “I have to remind myself of that, sometimes. We’re all grown adults, and we behave like _this_! It’s unbelievable.”

Eddie glowers at him, and the heat behind it has Stan holding up his hands, even as he laughs. “Sorry, I’m sorry! I’m much too drunk, Eddie, sorry. I promise I’ll try to put a hold on being such a smug shit. I’m a hypocrite, I know. I’m just as ridiculous as anybody else. I’ll work on it, I promise. For now, let me buy you another drink, okay?”

He starts to stroll back to the table, still chuckling to himself, but Eddie stops him suddenly. “Stan!” He turns, an eyebrow arched curiously, and Eddie finds the words pouring from him. “What’s that phrase for when you want to jump?”

“What?” Stan gives him a startled look, his eyes wide and one hand moving to his forearm to cover it unconsciously. His face draws into a serious expression as he watches Eddie closely. “Eddie, are you okay?”

“Not that,” Eddie says quickly. “Nothing like _that_. There’s… there’s a phrase, isn’t there?” He sighs irritably, massaging his temples. 

His brain feels simultaneously over-full and too quiet at the same time, as though he has so much to think over that all he can do is stare at it, and helplessly wonder where to begin. 

He wishes he hadn’t drunk so much.

He wants another drink.

He clears his throat, and tries again. “Like, when you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, or a bridge or something, and there’s a huge drop in front of you, and you know the landing would probably kill you, but you just feel like something’s telling you to jump anyway. Y’know? It’s French, I think?”

Stan’s face clears as Eddie manages to calm his fears, but his expression does little to settle Eddie. His smile is all too knowing, and there’s an amused quirk to his mouth as he looks Eddie over. “L'Appel du vide.”

“What?”

“It means ‘the call of the void’. I know what you mean. That’s what you’ve been thinking about?”

“Mm.” Eddie shrugs awkwardly. “Not really. It just came to mind.”

Stan chuckles softly, and starts heading back to the others. “Jump if you want, Eddie,” he calls back over his shoulder. “You’ll land safely. I promise.”

He watches Stan go, and stands alone for a moment as his words join the tangled pile knotted together in his head. They tower over Eddie, threatening to bury him in their mingled worries and confusion if he doesn’t take the time to sort through them soon.

Then he heads to the bar and orders the table another round of shots.

Thinking can wait.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Losers are not too old to play a drinking game, and revelations occur.

They’re no worse behaved on the Uber ride back to Richie’s than they were on the way there, which really says something about the way the seven of them act when left to their own devices. They don’t need alcohol to make fools of themselves.

Richie wasn’t lying about having doughnuts; he and Bill apparently prepared for their arrival by buying an enormous box. The seven of them descend upon it as soon as they get to Richie’s place, despite having stuffed themselves at the restaurant. 

They’re all in high spirits, and are drunk enough that drinking more feels like an excellent idea. 

Richie is going through the contents of his booze cupboard when his phone pings. He fumbles it out of his jeans, his grasp more than a little clumsy after their last round of shots, and a triumphant grin spreads across his face when he looks at it. “Yes!”

“Uh-oh,” Mike says.

“What?” Bev blinks. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. I just know I don’t trust that smile,” Mike laughs, and Bev leans against him in a fit of giggles. 

Richie fiddles with his phone, and when their own phones all chirp at once he waggles his eyebrows and waves a bottle of whiskey in a grand gesture. “Mesdames et Messieurs!” he declares, in a thick French accent. “Allow me to direct your attention to your telephones, sill voos plate!”

“You’d be such a disappointment to Madame Landry,” sighs Ben, wincing at Richie’s awful pronunciation, and suddenly Eddie can picture their eighth grade French teacher, tall and frosty and forever sending Richie out of her classroom because he insisted on talking in a hideous faux-French Voice throughout her lessons for ‘authenticity.’

He’s about to ask Mike what became of her – though he’s not sure what information he really hopes to glean, because he assumes she’s dead; he assumes everyone in Derry is dead – when Ben gasps. Mike swears beneath his breath, and Bev mutters, “What the _fuck_ , Richie?”

They’re all looking at their phones. Eddie scrambles to check his, and rolls his eyes when he sees a video waiting for him in the group chat; the still image is of a guy Eddie vaguely recognises as J.J. Abrams. 

“Oh, come on, Richie!” Eddie protests, feeling a flush of embarrassment as the memory of his teasing rushes back.

He presses play on the video instinctively, and a couple of things happen at once; he realises that they’re all too drunk to think properly, because he watches several of his friends do the same thing, and J.J. Abrams begins speaking earnestly from several different phones at once. 

_“Hey Richie! Uh, I’ll make this quick ‘cause I’m needed on set, but sure, I’d be glad to set your friends’ minds at rest. Hi, everybody, I’m J.J., and first of all, yes, I’m a huge fan of the Trashmouth. I’ve heard he’s working on some amazing stuff right now, and I honestly can’t wait to see it! Second of all, I know he told you all that I contacted him to ask him to be in Star Trek and Star Wars, and I need to tell you… that he’s right. I did do that. He’s super funny, and I know he’s kind of a nerd, and I thought he’d get a kick out of it, so it was my little way of, y’know, saying thanks for all the laughs. So there you go! Bye, Richie, I hope you’re good! Talk to you soon!”_

The six of them launch into a riot of shouting, all turning on Richie in varying degrees of incredulity and laughter. 

“Jesus Christ, Richie! I can’t believe you actually dragged him into this! You Hollywood elite asshole!” Eddie bellows, but he’s giggling. 

Richie flips him off cheerfully, and lifts his phone. He holds it at arm’s length, high above his head, so they are all in sight of the camera as they yell messily at him around half-eaten doughnuts.

“Thanks, J.J.!” Richie calls, grinning at his phone as he records. “These are the assholes I was telling you about! I already know why it’s so unbelievable to them that somebody would want to call themselves my fan, so thanks for setting the record straight, even if it does prove you have terrible taste, man! As you can see, these jackasses are taking the news with grace and dignity!”

“Fuh-fuck you both!” Bill cries, and throws his doughnut sloppily at Richie. It bounces off his back, and leaves a good portion of its frosting on his shirt before it rolls sadly across his kitchen. 

Undeterred and apparently unrepentant, Bill merely picks another doughnut out of the box. He shoves most of it into his mouth, before he adds a muffled, “I’m William Denbrough! I would luh-love to work with you one d-day, J.J.!”

“You’re such a tryhard little shit!” Richie cackles, his eyes sparkling as he aims the camera at Bill, who offers a shameless grin that is composed mostly of jelly. “That’s Big Billy Denbrough there, J.J. Great writer. I highly recommend working with him, because if he’s busy with you, that means I won’t have to deal with him for a while. Great to hear from you, man! Thanks for doing this!”

He drops his phone, and when everybody continues to yell at him, he hoots with laughter and flips them all off. 

“Holy cow! Our Richie Tozier really has been in Star Trek _and_ Star Wars!” Mike giggles, curling onto his side on Richie’s couch and laughing into the cushions. “For real! That’s amazing! You’re amazing! You’re part of such an exclusive club!”

“You know what this means, right?” Eddie asks, arching an eyebrow at Richie as he makes a show of triumphantly pouring another round of shots.

He looks up, caught in the act of licking whiskey from his fingers. “What?”

Eddie grins. “You’re the biggest nerd here.”

“You’re goddamn right I am!” Richie laughs, and clasps his hands together triumphantly over his head. “I stole your nerdy little crowns, you wannabes! Don’t fucking test me! I’ll be in all your favourite franchises, whether you want me there or not! In tiny bit roles nobody even believes were me!”

“We believe you!” Mike protests, collecting himself enough to lever himself up off the couch and hug Richie from behind. Richie laughs, and leans comfortably into his hold. “Some of us already believed you, even!”

“You’re a good man, Mikey, to be sure, and I’ve always said it, or may God himself strike me down,” Richie says, producing a wobbly Irish accent as he picks up one of the shots. “Now everybody come over here and join me in a drink afore I keep it all for myself, just see if I won’t!”

Amidst groans and rolled eyes, everybody else joins them, and picks up a shot.

“We should toast,” Stan suggests. His eyes move between Richie and Eddie. “I know we already toasted to the Losers Club, but more specifically. We did come here for a reason, right?”

“Right. To Richie, for his birthday, and for his big announcement,” Eddie says firmly.

But Richie raises a finger importantly. “Fuck my birthday and fuck my announcement – to Eddie, at the start of his new life! May it be a whole lot less shitty than his last one!”

Eddie aims a look at him, but Richie merely grins in return, eyebrows waggling, and it is just as infectious as it has always been. 

He allows himself to just watch him for a moment, as the haze of alcohol warms him from the inside. His defences are lowered enough that he’s suddenly blown away by the sight of Richie beaming openly at him.

His heart clenches, for a quick second, with the knowledge that he was denied this for entire decades. That the world conspired to split them up. He’s missed out on so many opportunities to see that smile, and it just isn’t fair.

He had missed Richie so much, and he hadn’t even realised it.

God, he loves him.

Then he laughs at how melodramatic he’s being about his best goddamn friend, and raises his glass. They’re back together now. What else matters? 

“To both of us?” he suggests, and the group break into cheers.

“To Eddie and Richie!”

The shots are downed. Richie immediately starts pouring new drinks, but pauses when Bev laughs. Ben smiles curiously. “What?”

“Nothing,” she laughs, and looks around when people watch her expectantly. “It was just a stupid thought. That’s all.”

“You have never had a stupid thought in your life,” Ben says dreamily, and several people snort, including Beverly.

“That’s very flattering, and very sweet of you, but it is also absolutely not true, sweetheart,” she laughs. “But okay. You know what I just thought? That I haven’t played a drinking game in _forever_. That’s all. But we’re definitely too old -”

“- No no no, that’s a great idea! We should play something!” Mike beams. “C’mon, you’re never too old for drinking games, right?”

Eddie glances around the group, looking for the usual sources of good sense to step in and put a stop to this, because it sure as hell sounds like a stupid idea to _him_. 

But Mike is already telling Bev she’s a genius, and Ben is scrambling to help Richie to pour more drinks. Hell, even Stan merely shrugs and starts calmly eating another doughnut.

If Team Sensible is willing to let it happen, who is Eddie to get in the way of a good time?

Which is how they find themselves sitting in a circle on Richie’s living room floor, propped up on cushions with full glasses of assorted booze in front of themselves, grinning dizzily and playing Never Have I Ever. 

They’re all already pretty drunk, and Eddie finds himself giggly and excitable, his previous worries dulled by the alcohol. He’s pretty sure that he’s going to regret drinking so much tomorrow, when he is hungover as well as tied in knots over his feelings, but right now that feels like a lifetime away.

When the first thing Stan says is a dry, “Never have I ever forced J.J. Abrams to win an argument for me,” Eddie laughs until he cries. 

Richie aims a snotty look and his middle finger at Stanley, but pointedly takes a drink.

When they circle around to Richie’s turn, he stares directly at Stan and says, “Never have I ever said ‘fuck’ in a synagogue,” and suddenly things get personal. 

Richie and Stan concentrate on each other for a couple of rounds, goading each other from across the circle, but when Stan snaps, “Never have I ever vomited on stage,” and Beverly drinks alongside Richie with a giggly recollection of a particularly messy fashion show, the war seems to spread to the whole group.

“Never have I ever shoplifted,” from Ben gets Beverly, Eddie, Bill, and Stan. 

Eddie’s pointed, “Never have I ever swum with dolphins,” takes down Mike, Ben, and Beverly, all of whom have posted obnoxiously cute selfies of that happening in the group chat in the past few months. 

Mike grins, and shoots back, “Never have I ever broken a bone,” and gets Eddie groaning as a sudden phantom tingling shoots down his arm, but Bev, Bill, and Richie all drink too. 

The game continues mock-heatedly for a while. Everyone knows each other much too well not to know how to take each other down. There is so much ammunition in their shared history. 

Still, Eddie is having more fun than he has had in a long time, and the seven of them are in high spirits as they sprawl together, their glasses quickly emptying as they keep playing. 

Except for Ben, who somehow still has most of his drink left after several rounds. 

When Bill points this out incredulously, Ben merely offers a loose shrug. “What can I say?” he grins, raising his drink in a smug gesture. “I guess I’m just not as much of an idiot as you guys?”

Mike laughs, and laughs, and then forces out, “Well, shit, Ben, you asked for it – never have I ever kissed another Loser!”

“Oh, come _on_ , Mike!” Ben protests, but raises his glass to his lips as Beverly laughs giddily by his side.

“Th-that was totally wuh-worth it. Well said, Mike,” Bill says sagely, and clinks his drink with Bev’s before they both drink.

It’s Stan’s turn to offer the next statement, but he says nothing while Ben, Bill, and Bev drink. Eddie turns to watch him, propped up on one elbow and awaiting Stan’s words, but nothing is forthcoming. 

He merely stares across the group at Richie, who, Eddie realises, is staring back, his cheeks pink.

After a moment, Richie shrugs, a tiny gesture that nevertheless seems to come across loud and clear to Stan, who nods shortly in return. 

Eddie’s jaw drops as both Stan and Richie raise their glasses, and take a drink.

Bev gasps. Ben chokes on his drink. Bill’s eyebrows are lost in his hairline as he blurts, “Wh-what the fuck?”

“Wait, really?” Mike blurts, and suddenly, everyone is laughing.

Everyone except Eddie. 

His mouth is gaping open as he looks between Richie and Stan, both of whom are red-faced and laughing sheepishly.

Richie looks his way, and Eddie’s mouth snaps shut with a click. His stomach is roiling in a way which has nothing at all to do with the alcohol he’s consumed. Suddenly his mouth is dry, and his heart is clenching in his chest. 

He forces a laugh under Richie’s gaze, and stares into his drink until he looks away.

“No, seriously, is this for real?” Mike asks. He sits up, gathering his lazy sprawl until he’s seated cross-legged, with a delighted smile on his face. “I can’t believe I didn’t know this! Did _any_ of you know?”

His eyes rake over the group, and Eddie shakes his head shortly. He can’t seem to find his tongue right now. 

_“He’s closer to you than anybody else.”_

_“Is that what you think?”_

His mind throws his earlier conversation with Stan back at him, and his eyes squeeze shut for a long second. When he opens them, he realises Stan is watching him, with an uncertain look on his face.

Eddie stares back, and feels a cold stab of triumph when Stan turns red, and looks away.

Richie, at least, seems not to have noticed them. He laughs shakily, then admits, “I never told anybody.” He looks hesitantly to Stan, who offers a short shake of his head.

“No, me neither. Of course I didn’t. It… it felt like it should be just for us. Like it should be our secret.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks. You were always good for that, man,” Richie laughs. He raises his glass to Stan. “Stanley’s always kept my secrets!”

He blinks after a moment, as though replaying his words, then turns red all over again. Eddie gets the impression that he did not actually mean to say that. 

His thoughts whirl restlessly, scattered like dust in the wind, as Richie distracts himself by drinking again.

He swallows, then goes on, his voice quiet and sheepish. “So maybe Stan had kind of a head-start in knowing about the whole gay thing, given that he was my first kiss.”

“Really!” Mike beams, as though this is the best thing he’s ever heard. He looks between Richie and Stan eagerly. “Were you two…?”

“God, no!” Stan protests. He pulls a face, and Richie draws himself up in affront. 

“Hey! I’m right here, Stan the Man! Are you saying I’m good enough to smooch but not good enough to date? Are you fucking negging me right now?”

Stan rolls his eyes. He reaches over to shove him lightly in the shoulder. “Oh, stop that, you asshole. You know I don’t mean it like that. You’re practically my brother, Rich. Which makes it extra-weird that you were _my_ first kiss too.”

He looks around the rest of the group. “We only kissed once, and we weren’t involved beyond that, I assure you.” His eyes land on Eddie for a moment, then flick away. 

“You wish you were that lucky!” Richie blusters, but he’s laughing genuinely now, as though his panic is dissipating. He shoots Stan an amused look, and softens his voice as he says, “I thought you’d forgotten about that, y’know. For the longest time. Until...”

He trails off, and Stan shakes his head. “Nope.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t,” Richie adds, with a surprisingly tender smile. Stan’s face creases into a fond look in return.

“How did this happen!” Mike bursts, and Eddie’s eyes land on him in surprise. He has his chin propped on his hand, and Eddie gets the impression he would be taking notes if he could. “Guys, c’mon. There must be a story here!”

Richie and Stanley look to each other. Richie shrugs again, and Stan nods. “Well, it’s not much of a story, I don’t think, but sure.”

“No, I think they’ll get a kick out of it,” Richie laughs. He puts his drink down, and starts talking with his hands. 

“So, Stan’s known I’m – I’m gay, since… forever, I guess? I never actually told him,” he adds hurriedly. “I didn’t have to. He just saw right through me. I remember one time… God, how old would we have been? Ten? Maybe eleven?”

He looks to Stan for confirmation without elaborating further, and Stan nods. Eddie is struck all over again by just how easily they talk to each other; how they almost seem to share a mind at times, leaping from one subject to another without hesitation or explanation. 

Eddie takes a drink to hide his frown as Richie carries on. 

“Stan caught me crying in the club house, having a big gay crisis on my own. He walked in, and saw me sobbing in the corner, and – and I was like, trying desperately to think what I could tell him I was upset about, but he didn’t even have to _ask_. He just sat down beside me and put an arm around me and told me,” Richie’s voice rises into an effortless impression of teenage Stan, “’You know I’ll always love you no matter what, right?’ And I cried into his shirt for, like, another hour solid. God knows how he actually knew what I was freaking out over.”

“Richie,” Stan sighs. He rubs his temples briefly, before aiming a fond smile his way. “You are many things, but you’re not subtle.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Personally, I think Stan is psychic,” Richie grins.

“So is that when it happened?” Ben asks. He stretches, lets out a groan and rubs his back, and Beverly tuts softly. She guides him down, encouraging him to sprawl with his head in her lap, and he moves easily with her touch. Her hands card through his hair, and he sighs softly, then looks between Stan and Richie with half-lidded eyes. “D’you kiss him to make him feel better?”

Stan drinks again, then shakes his head. “No. It didn’t happen then. It wasn’t until…” His brow creases, and he turns to Richie, propping himself up on one arm and blinking tiredly. “We were fourteen?”

“Fifteen. Or I was, anyway,” Richie corrects, and then starts giggling. “And Benny-boy, you’re making Stan out to be way more tender and caring than he actually was.”

“Are you suggesting that it wasn’t actually the romantic, candlelit affair we’re all picturing?” Beverly grins, and Bill laughs.

“There weren’t choirs of a-angels descending when your luh-lips met?”

“With those two?” Eddie mutters, finding his voice at last. He looks between the two of them, and smirks. “Maybe devils, squirming their way up out of the ground.”

“Oh, shit, Eddie Spaghetti’s got the measure of us!” Richie cries. He throws his head back as he laughs, and Eddie’s eyes dart helplessly to the line of his throat. It’s long, and stubbled, and his fingers itch to trail over it.

The vehemence of the thought startles him. Where the hell had that come from? 

Clearly their story is sending his mind places, as though he’s rushing to fill in the details they’re missing. 

Yeah, that must be it.

He takes a quick drink, curling his fingers tightly around the glass, and is glad when Mike speaks.

“C’mon! I need to know how this went down! I can’t picture it at all, guys!”

“So, surprise surprise, I was being a little shit,” Richie grins. He kicks out a foot to nudge at Stan’s, laughing when he rolls his eyes and kicks back at him in return. “We were in his bedroom, and it was new comics day, and Stan was desperate to get ‘em read, but I was more focused on having a freak out.”

“He kept throwing himself around my room,” Stan says, aiming a sharp look at Richie. “Flailing on my bed, and rolling around on the floor, and whining about how he would never, ever find anybody who wanted to be with him. At fifteen!”

“Real pressing issues to a man like myself,” Richie agrees shamelessly. “A fourteen-year-old _boy_ like you couldn’t possibly have understood. I was, like, a gentleman of the world, y’know? I had a steady income from mowing my dad’s lawn once a week, and I could do the best impressions anybody’d ever heard, duh, and I’d already killed a fucking space clown. I should’ve been drowning in people desperate to date me. The way I saw it, I was a catch!”

“You were an idiot,” Stan says pointedly, and Richie laughs.

“You’re damn right I was. But I was an idiot who was ready to romance the shit out of – of anybody who’d have me,” he says quickly. His cheeks are pink, and he pauses to take a drink, before he pulls an exaggeratedly ugly face and gestures to himself. 

“It was beyond me why the world at large did not seem to appreciate all I had to offer,” he says dryly. “No matter what I did, nobody wanted to wrestle lips with me. I felt like I’d never get any kissing practice under my belt, and that wears on a guy, y’know? So I chose to express my woes to Stanley, because he was my buddy, and he understood me, and I figured he’d always choose my emotional anguish over his comics.”

Stan’s face screws up, and he holds the back of his hand to his forehead as he leans back dramatically. “Staaaaaaaaaaaaaaan,” he whines, his voice high and nasal and wavering. “Why doesn’t anybody want to kiss meeeeeeeeee? I’m going to be bad at kissing foreveeeeeeeeeer! Why am I always alooooooooone? It’s not faaaaaaaiiiiiiir!” 

He straightens up, and his expression flattens out. “He went on like this for an _hour_. No matter how many times I told him he looked just fine, and that he was only fifteen, and that… that probably somebody already wanted to be with him, even if he didn’t know it yet. He just kept flinging himself around and wailing about how he was ugly, and unlovable, and that nobody would _ever_ want to be with him.”

“Perfectly reasonable complaints for a teenager,” Bev says with a sage nod, and a gleam to her eyes.

“Not over-dramatic at all,” Stan snorts. “He kept saying he was going to die alone, and that nobody would care that he went to his grave without even getting one single kiss.”

“And then Stan just fucking snapped,” Richie giggles. He sits up, straightens his spine and tightens his shoulders and narrows his eyes into a glare, then aims a withering look around the group. 

Eddie can’t stop himself from letting out a startled laugh, despite his discomfort; Richie’s impression of a younger Stan pushed dangerously past his limits is so accurate that it’s almost as though they’re looking back in time. Even Stan himself is laughing helplessly at the other side of the circle, his eyes bright as he giggles.

“I was leaning against his bedroom door, all ‘woe is me,’ and I remember he put his comic down so carefully, like making sure it didn’t crease was the only thing that mattered. And then he stalked across the room at me, and I swear it was like the grim fucking reaper was coming for me.” Richie scrambles to his feet and acts it out, marching stiffly towards a wall with cold fury in his eyes.

“No!” Mike squeaks, his hands covering his mouth as he laughs. “Just to shut you up? Really?”

“To shut me up? Fuck _that_ , Mikey! I thought he was going to full-on murder me!” Richie protests. He crowds an imaginary person against the wall, hands splayed at approximately head height, and then turns to take the place he would have been in; he cringes back, his body flattened against the wall, and produces a terrified expression that has all of them laughing. 

“I thought my time had come, man! I practically had an out of body experience! He glared at me, then he grabbed me by the face and kissed me like he was fucking _furious_ with me. Like, I’m amazed he didn’t bite my lip off, y’know?”

He laughs along with everyone else, then slumps down to the wall, aiming an open-mouthed look of astonishment at a point above him. “I was like, what the fuck, did that just happen? And then he was, like,” he schools his face into a tight glare, and when he speaks, it is in Stan’s voice. “There! Now shut the fuck up and let me read _Hellblazer_!”

It is too much for them to handle. Stan falls back, giggling at the ceiling, as Mike crawls over and flops against him, with tears of laughter trickling down his face. Bev curls up around Ben and Bill leans against the both of them, all three cackling, and Eddie finds himself laughing along with them. 

But there is a phantom tightness in his chest that he is doing his best to ignore.

He can’t take his eyes off Richie as he returns to sit with the group, giggling and flailing an arm out to pat Stan on the thigh. He looks flushed and dizzy, and his eyes are crinkled with amusement at the corners. “So that’s the story of my first kiss!”

“ _Our_ first kisses,” Stan corrects through his laughter. 

“Yeah, I guess so! Wow, I never… I never thought I’d get to tell you guys about that.” Richie’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head with a chuckle. “It’s crazy, y’know? That I can do that now.”

“It’s amazing, honey,” Beverly smiles. She wipes a tear from her cheek, and grins proudly at him. “Thanks for telling us.”

“I wanted to, forever ago. I actually…” Richie’s voice trails off, and he looks down at his lap, before he smiles tightly. “You remember when you all saw Stanley for the first time, back in Derry? And I said -”

“- You said you knew it was really him, because he’d told you something only he could know,” Eddie says, the words pouring forth from him abruptly. His eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. “This was it, wasn’t it? He told you about how he kissed you.”

His stomach churns, and he swallows hard, chastising himself for his reactions. 

It was just a stupid kiss between two friends, almost thirty years ago now. It didn’t mean anything. 

He has no right to be jealous.

“This was it,” Stan supplies softly. He meets Eddie’s eyes, and offers him a hesitant smile. 

Eddie blinks, then takes a breath in. 

He fills his lungs, holds it, and breathes out with a soft sigh, pushing everything away from himself along with it; the sour tang of envy in his stomach, and the tightness in his chest, and the lingering feeling of stupidity for not seeing through Richie years ago.

Stan was there for Richie when he needed somebody. _That_ is what he chooses to take from all of this mess.

He smiles back at Stan, and relaxes as he sees relief spread across Stan’s face. 

“That’s so sweet,” Ben murmurs. His eyes are sparkling as he looks between Stan and Richie. “Your first kiss made sure Richie believed who you were all those years later, Stanley.”

“I know,” Stan chuckles. He nudges Richie in the leg with his foot, and grins at him. Warmth shines through in his smile. “There are probably worse first kisses to have had, I suppose.”

“I have no complaints,” Richie agrees with a grin, and blows a kiss to Stan.

“I just can’t believe I didn’t know about this,” Mike says again. He pulls himself back up to sit beside Stan, and ruffles his hair in a way which leaves Stan sighing and fussily rearranging it. 

“You’re not actually omniscient, Michael, much as you pretend otherwise,” he says primly.

“I suppose I have to accept that I have some limitations,” Mike mock-sighs, before his eyes widen. They fix on Eddie, and his mouth spreads into a grin. “Oh my god, Eddie, you know what this means?”

“Uh,” Eddie says, lost, but Beverly lets out a delighted laugh.

“You’re the only two Losers who haven’t kissed another Loser!”

“Oh!” Eddie blinks, and then laughs as Mike beams at him. “Well, shit!”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling kind of left out,” Mike says. He sits up on his knees and raises his eyebrows at Eddie; equal parts challenge and encouragement. “What do you say we redress the balance?”

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. He glances hurriedly around the room, taking in his friends’ reactions; Bev is beaming, while Ben watches with a quiet smile from her lap. Stan is silently sipping his drink, but his eyes are amused. 

Bill looks more astonished than anything else; his eyebrows are in his hairline, and one hand fiddles with his wedding ring as his eyes dart restlessly between Eddie and Mike.

When he looks his way, Eddie catches Richie gaping at him, before he grins and waggles his eyebrows. “C’mon, Eds! You gonna put on a saucy little show for us? I’ll – I’ll shove a dollar in your g-string if you get me going just right!” 

His smile is enormous, but his voice is not quite his usual excited crow. Eddie blinks at him, before the words permeate the fog of alcohol in his brain, and he snorts.

“Pervert,” Eddie scoffs, but he turns back to Mike with determination surging through him. Mike, who is watching him excitedly, with mischief in his eyes and a broad smile on his handsome face. 

Mike, who stayed in Derry for twenty-seven years, watching and waiting, and desperately planning for an eventuality he hoped would never arrive. Who never had anybody to turn to, and who didn’t even have the luxury of forgetting as much.

Mike, who let them all go, then brought them all back, despite knowing just how much both would hurt him. 

A smile blooms on Eddie’s face as a rush of fondness floods him, and he gets onto his hands and knees. “Let’s do this, Mikey,” he says, and crawls closer. 

Mike laughs as he approaches, but it’s not mocking; it sounds joyful, as though Mike cannot believe, even after all this time, that he gets to have the six of them back in his life. 

He beams when Eddie kneels up in front of him, and holds a hand out to tangle their fingers together, then uses it to guide Eddie closer. 

Eddie leans into his space, balances himself with his free hand on Mike’s broad shoulder, and closes his eyes as their lips meet.

The kiss is slow and easy. Mike cups Eddie’s cheek with his free hand, and brushes his thumb tenderly over Eddie’s jaw. He tastes sweet, and smoky, sugar and whiskey mingling, and Eddie thought it might feel awkward, but he finds himself smiling when they pull away.

The group whoops around them. Eddie sits up on his knees, and grins dizzily at Mike. “That was my first kiss as a divorced man,” he reveals, suddenly feeling oddly shy, and Mike drags him into a hug with a delighted laugh.

“I’m honoured to be your first!” he declares, and ruffles Eddie’s hair. “Here’s to many more, right?”

“We’ll see what happens, I guess,” Eddie manages, and pulls away with a flushed smile. He shuffles back to his place in the circle, and nothing could stop his gaze from sliding sideways to look at Richie.

Their eyes meet for a second. Richie is flushed pink, and his mouth is hanging open, and Eddie realises that one hand is clenched tightly on his own thigh. 

He looks away when he realises Eddie is watching him, and pushes a hand sheepishly through his hair until it catches on his ridiculous Donald Duck headband. 

He says nothing.

Stan clears his throat, and when Eddie looks at him, he’s wearing an impatient expression. He rolls his eyes and tilts his head back to sigh at the ceiling, but says nothing.

“I, uh, I th-think it’s probably time fuh-fuh-for bed,” Bill says suddenly, and Eddie realises that he looks frazzled. 

Mike looks his way, and ducks his head, sheepishly. “Did we wear you out, Billy?” he asks, his voice soft, and Bill produces a strangled laugh.

“Suh-something like that,” he manages after a moment of his throat working uselessly.

They lever themselves to their feet with some drunken stumbling, but nobody actually falls, so they chalk that up as a win. Everybody helpfully clears up their glasses as Richie explains the sleeping situation.

“Okay, so, I got three beds, and a couch,” he says, thumbing at the couch in his living room. “I was thinking that Bev and Ben would share a bed, obviously, though if I hear _any_ hanky-panky I will call your mom so fast, Benny-boy, don’t you test me.”

“Too drunk for that,” Ben mumbles. He’s draped over Bev from behind, with his arms loosely wrapped around her waist. She presses a kiss to his cheek as Richie laughs.

“Uh-huh. Forgive me if I don’t trust you. Architects are known for their erections, aren’t they?” 

Ben wrinkles his nose, and hides his face against Beverly’s shoulder as she grins wickedly with Richie’s words. 

“Beep beep,” Stan sighs with a shake of his head. “Beep fucking beep.”

“Yeah, well, so we got team B‘n’B in one room, and I thought Mike could share with Billy.” Richie points down the hallway, and completely misses the way both Bill and Mike gape at each other, then hurriedly look away with awkward smiles. “And that leaves Eddie and Stan sharing my bed, and I’ll take the couch.”

“No, thank you,” Stan says shortly. Richie turns to look at him, his brows drawing together.

“Huh? What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no. Let me take the couch, please?”

“Staniel!” Richie sputters, and laughs incredulously. “You’re a guest, man! I’m not making you take the couch!”

“You’re _not_ making me take the couch,” Stan agrees easily. “I’m _choosing_ to take the couch. This is your place. I refuse to kick you out of your own bed.”

“Stanley!”

“Richard.” Stan arches an eyebrow as Richie scowls. “Please? Can we not have this argument? It’s late, and I’m tired, and I really don’t want to share with anybody tonight. You know how light a sleeper I am.”

“Well, yeah, but one night won’t kill you, right?” Richie blurts. He looks oddly desperate; Stan’s face twists in return.

“No, I guess not, but it’ll wear me out,” Stan says, and he sounds almost apologetic as Richie’s face falls. “I’m going to feel awful tomorrow if I don’t sleep. I sleep badly enough when I’m drunk anyway. Having somebody else beside me will keep me awake all night. Would it really be so bad if you…?”

“C’mon, man, don’t make me do this,” Richie mumbles, and Stan falls silent.

He sighs. He drags his hands through his hair, and looks from Richie to Eddie with a troubled expression, before his shoulders slump. 

“Okay, forget I said anything. I’ll take the bed with Eddie, if it’s – if you don’t want to.”

“Wait,” Eddie says slowly, and he looks between the two of them in growing unease. “Are you guys fighting for the right not to have to sleep with me? What the fuck?” he says, and forces a weak laugh as red-hot humiliation courses through him. “Do I reek, or something?”

Richie turns red. Stan sighs, and raises a hand to massage his temples.

“Of course not. That’s not it, Eddie. I’m sure you’re great company in the bedroom,” he says, with a teasing smile which does little to dissipate Eddie’s embarrassment at finding himself regarded as the worst possible option. 

“Right,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds muted and uncertain, even to himself. “I mean, I’ll take the floor, if you really don’t want to share with me, or whatever. You can just have the whole bed, I don’t… I don’t mind.”

Richie winces, hard. Stan gives him a resigned, apologetic look. “Honestly, Eddie, it’s not you. I just find it very difficult to get any sleep in new places, and I’m not great at sharing a bed. Even with Patty, I still sometimes end up in the spare bedroom on bad nights. And it’s always worse when I’ve had a drink, so I was really hoping I could sleep alone tonight.” 

He offers Eddie a contrite smile. “Really, it’s nothing personal, I promise. It’s just me being a terrible bedmate. I’m sorry in advance if my tossing and turning keeps you awake.”

“Okay,” Eddie says after a moment of consideration. Stan seems serious, and sincere, and Eddie is actually kind of relieved to find out that somebody else out there has relied on the relief of a waiting spare bedroom for the sake of their sanity, never mind marital harmony. 

Then he frowns, and turns to Richie. “All right, so that’s why Stan shouldn’t share with me. So what’s _your_ problem?”

Richie’s flush only deepens. His eyes dart desperately around the room as Eddie’s brows draw further together in the quiet that stretches out between them all.

“It’s fine, Eddie,” Stan says, eventually breaking the awkward silence. “I don’t mind, really.”

“No, c’mon, what is it?” Eddie demands. He stalks over to Richie and prods him in the chest, giving in to the flare of anger that rises within him. It’s better than dwelling on the stark rush of humiliation that still burns fiercely beneath it all. “Why don’t _you_ want to share with me?” 

Richie refuses to meet his gaze, until Eddie prods him more sharply. Then his eyes flicker up, wide and anxious, and Eddie meets them with a glare. 

“I… I just… don’t want to be a bad host,” Richie tries, then clears his throat, and manages to make his voice sound something approaching sincere as Eddie watches him closely. “Who makes their guest take the couch when there’s a perfectly good bed available?”

“But he doesn’t even want the goddamn bed!”

“I – I know, but it’s the principle of the thing, right?”

A thought settles suddenly in Eddie’s head, dark and looming, and a cold, sickly suspicion somersaults in his gut. His eyes widen as he watches Richie squirm. “It’s because you’re – because of what you told us, isn’t it?” he asks hesitantly. “You’re worried I’ll freak out, if I have to share a bed with you now I know that you’re gay. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Richie’s mouth drops open. “ _What_?”

Guilt surges through Eddie. He takes a hurried step back from Richie. “Look, I… I know I took a while to… to react, when you told us, but I promise I’m -”

“- No!” Richie gapes at him, his cheeks flushing even more as his mouth twists. “Jesus, Eddie, I don’t think you – no!”

“Because it’s fine, I promise,” Eddie adds quickly. He swallows, and forces what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “I won’t – I wouldn’t, like, panic, or whatever -”

“- Please, stop,” Richie begs. His hands are shaking as he pulls Eddie into a tight hug. “Eddie, Eds, please. Whatever you’re picturing, you’re wrong, I _swear_. Fuck, I didn’t mean – fuck!”

Eddie clings to him in return, and buries his face against Richie’s shoulder. When they pull apart, Richie looks miserable, as though Eddie’s words have gutted him. 

“I promise,” he says sincerely, and his hands are clenched on Eddie’s shoulders. “It’s not you. I… I have my own issues, okay? I’m not… I haven’t…” His lips flatten together, and Richie sucks a deep breath in through his nose before he blurts, “I told you, I don’t date, remember?”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s brows draw together in confusion. 

He does remember; he remembers Richie saying as much in one of their phone calls, and then yet again resorting to jokes about Eddie’s mom, as though even that much intimacy was too much for him to handle. 

And then… then Eddie got in a snit about Myra, and love, and the moment passed them by.

He looks to Richie in confusion, watching something that almost seems like anguish on his face, before his own eyes widen as a thought occurs. “You’re not used to sharing a bed with people?” he guesses. “Sleeping besides, uh, men, in particular, you mean?”

Richie looks surprised, then nods after a moment, the motion jerky and hesitant. “I… no. I guess I’m not, Eds.”

“But…” Eddie takes a deep breath, and forces himself to push on, even as the rest of the Losers hover awkwardly around them. “You shared the bed with Stan, when you guys met up. Right?”

“He ended up in the armchair, eventually,” Stan offers quietly. “It, uh, it wasn’t the best night, for either of us.”

Richie’s eyes widen, as though something is occurring to him, and he turns quickly to look at Stan. After a moment, with his attention still on Stan, he nods. “Right. I… I can’t believe I almost forgot about that night.”

Stan’s nose wrinkles in confusion. “What about it?” 

Richie watches him, eyes narrowing as he seems to consider something, before he nods. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep,” he mutters. He watches Stan for a moment longer, just staring as he looks back at him, apparently lost. Then, abruptly, he seems to snap out of it; he turns back to Eddie, and shrugs sheepishly. “After I, uh… after…”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie nods, but Stan still looks lost, and he abruptly realises that Stan doesn’t know Richie rang him that night. 

He remembers the call so well. Of course he does; after everything it led to, he thinks he’ll probably never forget that night. 

His heart hurts, suddenly, to think that Richie ended their call, calmed from his panic, but still went to curl up in an armchair rather than going back to bed with Stan.

And to think Eddie had been picturing them cuddling together. To think that the idea of the two of them being close had made him… what, envious? A sudden spike of shame pierces his chest.

He sighs. “I didn’t realise it was such a big deal for you,” he admits quietly. “I thought it was just… because it was me, that you’d have to share with. That you didn’t want to be close to me.”

An expression of terror passes over Richie’s face. “I mean it – you’re – it’s not so big a deal, I guess,” he hedges. He tries for a small smile, which soon fades into a troubled grimace in the face of Eddie’s soft look. “It’s fine. I’m just… not used to sleeping beside people, y’know? Forty years in the closet’ll do that to you, huh.”

Eddie watches Richie closely. He looks oddly cornered, shifting from foot to foot and fidgeting restlessly like an animal about to flee, and Eddie’s chest clenches at the sight of his discomfort. 

It’s been a long, long time since Eddie slept beside anybody. He gets it, he really does. It is an intimacy he has never really welcomed.

Except…

Except that isn’t true. He and Myra had not particularly enjoyed sharing a bed together, and both of them had been quietly relieved the night Eddie moved into the spare bedroom, but if he casts his mind further back, Eddie remembers happier moments of intimacy in sleep.

He remembers the Losers occasionally spending the night in their clubhouse, spreading their sleeping bags over the floor and all sprawling together in a pile. He remembers waking one such night, with Mike a warm, solid presence at his back, and his legs tangled with Bev’s, and feeling safe and contented as his friends slumbered around him. 

But more than that, he remembers having sleepovers at Richie’s house, just the two of them.

It was a pretty common occurrence, happening regularly enough that Maggie Tozier always kept a box of Eddie’s favourite cereal in their kitchen. Neither Maggie nor Wentworth seemed to mind how much time Eddie spent at their house, but Eddie’s mom always took more persuading. 

Eventually, it was one of the things Eddie insisted on as part of his deal to keep taking the medication she was so desperate to keep him tied to.

He thought it was worth it. Those sleepovers with Richie were some of his favourite times.

They would read comics together, and switch off on playing _Super Mario Bros_ on Richie’s NES, and guzzle snacks Eddie was never allowed at home. Sometimes they would watch movies, and talk all the way through them, and make up their own versions together; wild and wonderful stories that that always featured the Losers themselves.

And, inevitably, when they could no longer keep their eyes open, they would crawl into Richie’s bed, and sleep curled up together. 

They did not actually plan to do so, he thinks; or not consciously, at least. Even if they went to sleep side by side, they would always wake with their arms around each other, and their legs entwined.

Sometimes he would wake to find that he had tucked himself atop Richie’s chest in the night, and that Richie had wrapped his arms around him in a cocoon that he had no desire to break free from. Other mornings he would find Richie sprawled atop him, blanketing Eddie with his form and with Eddie’s leg thrown atop him from beneath, as though keeping him in place.

Neither of them had ever discussed it. Richie would usually blush whenever he woke up, but he never actually mentioned it. 

He would just wriggle free from Eddie, and ruffle his hair, and claim to have dreamed of Eddie’s mom, and the two of them would scramble down to breakfast together, laughing and happy.

So maybe Richie might not be used to sleeping beside people any more, sure. But Eddie knows damn well that wasn’t always the case.

A thousand conflicting thoughts are screaming at him, but Eddie has always been weak against an unhappy Richie. 

His own reservations are quickly cast aside in the name of trying to help him.

“You _were_ used to it. Way back when. I bet you could get used to it again.”

Richie frowns, confused. “What?”

Eddie offers him an encouraging smile. “I get that it’s a big deal, but you can do it. Hell, it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed before.” He moves closer to Richie to nudge his elbow, part comfort, part challenge. “Remember? We used to do it almost every weekend.”

“I – I mean, yeah, when we were kids!” Richie protests. He laughs, high and almost hysterical, and Eddie’s hand moves to rub his shoulder soothingly before he’s even aware of what he’s doing.

Richie quietens immediately, and lets out a sigh. “It’s not the same,” he mumbles, and his eyes are widened in torn confusion behind his glasses.

“Of course it is,” Eddie says. He tightens his hand on his shoulder, and his smile broadens. “It’s just me, man. It’s just your Eds.”

He practically watches the fight drain out of Richie with his words. Some internal argument is won, and the tension leaves his shoulders. “Fine,” he mumbles, and turns to Stan. “Okay. You can have the couch.”

“Thank you,” Stan murmurs. His eyes are fixed on Eddie in astonishment, as though he’s just done something amazing. Eddie blinks confusedly at him in return.

“Yeah, well. Don’t come crying to me if your spine snaps in half tomorrow,” Richie grumbles, and it seems to break Stan out of whatever reverie he’s in.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Richie disappears to his bedroom to fetch some bedclothes for the couch, and when he returns, there is a strange look on his face. He dumps sheets, pillows and a blanket on the couch, and then holds up a bundle of cloth.

“I, uh, I almost forgot,” he says, and there’s something awkward about his words. “I know I told you not to bring me any gifts, but I actually got something for a couple of you guys. Not all of you, sorry. But I don’t think the rest of you will be too jealous.”

“Wh-what are you up to, Tuh-Tuh-Trashmouth?” Bill asks. He looks oddly tense, and Eddie cannot help but notice the way he’s fiddling restlessly with his wedding ring again, as though nervous.

He wonders belatedly if maybe Stan and Richie weren’t the only people to have reservations about the sleeping arrangements. 

Richie, however, just shrugs a shoulder at him. “Nothing for you, Billy,” he says, and unfurls the cloth to hand something to Beverly. She unfolds it as Richie moves to give another to Stan, and then finally turns to display something against his own chest.

It’s a t-shirt. It’s black, and baggy, and it has words printed on the front in a blocky red font. Eddie blinks as he reads them: _I STARED INTO THE DEADLIGHTS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT._

“See?” Richie mumbles, smiling half-heartedly. It does not reach his eyes. “Nothing to covet here, right?”

Everyone is quiet as they look between Richie, Beverly, and Stan. 

Bev and Richie share a look, and then Beverly gently disentangles herself from Ben and moves closer to Richie. 

She looks up at him, her eyes narrowed as she assesses him, before she gently raises his glasses away from his eyes. He does not stop her; he merely blinks placidly down at her as she runs the side of her thumb delicately over one of the dark circles beneath his eyes. 

She smiles at him, then, weak and pained, and he returns it with what is barely more than a quirk of his lips as his glasses fall back into place. Neither say anything, but both move into a tight hug for a long moment.

“I wondered,” Bev whispers. Her hands stroke circles on Richie’s back. “But you – you never said anything, whenever I’d ask if you’re okay, and I thought… I hoped… God, Richie, I hoped…”

“I didn’t want to stress you out,” Richie mumbles in return. He nuzzles against the side of her head as she makes a wounded noise. “I know. Sorry. You already went through so much, and I didn’t want to add… Sorry, Bev.”

They hold each other for another moment, and link hands before they break apart. Then they turn as one to look at Stan. 

He has not moved, and is merely staring fixedly at the shirt clutched tightly in his hands. 

“And Stan… too?” Bev murmurs miserably.

“I think so,” Richie nods. “Right, Stan?”

Silence stretches out between them, but the only acknowledgement they get is a tight shake of Stan’s head.

“C’mon, man,” Richie mumbles, and there is a cracked, imploring note behind his voice. “You don’t have to hide it anymore.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Stan says. His voice is so quiet that Eddie strains to hear him speak.

Richie shakes his head immediately. “No, Stan, c’mon. I… I know what I saw, that night in Portland. You were a mess, and I… I know what a deadlights nightmare looks like, dude.”

A gasp ripples around the rest of them. Eddie’s eyes widen, and the breath is all but knocked from him, as he finally realises why Richie had called him that night.

“Stan, they’re awful, I know,” Bev says softly. “But it’s okay, honey. You can talk about it, if you need to. I know it’s hard, but talking helps. I promise.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” says Stan. He is trembling as he looks at the material clutched in his hands. 

“Look, I… I know you didn’t want to tell me then, but it’s been months, man,” Richie says, and there is no mistaking the pleading tone to his voice. “And I – I’m sorry to bring it up like this, but I thought maybe a – a joke would, like, relax you a bit, but – I mean, obviously I know this wasn’t the best way to go about this, but, like, it’s _me_ , right? What am I gonna do, if not tell jokes?”

Eddie recognises it for what it is; Richie is giving Stan a perfect opening to a mocking snipe at his sense of humour, desperately trying to get him to talk. 

He merely shakes his head in response.

Richie carries on, his words tumbling from him as he stares anxiously at Stan. “I had ‘em printed a while ago, and I was gonna just, like, mail it to you, but that didn’t feel – and then we all decided to meet up, and I thought, well, maybe we could… maybe this weekend, we could, like, talk? But then I, uh, I told you all about myself, and I almost forgot… Look, it doesn’t matter. You can tell us what you saw, Stan. It’s okay. I promise.”

“It _is_ okay,” Stan mumbles. He balls up the shirt viciously, his eyes still fixed onto it. “I’m fine. I didn’t see – I’m fine.”

“Stan, please,” Richie pleads. “I – you – your nightmare was so fucking – I _know_ , man!”

“Please, Stanley,” Bev adds desperately. “It’s… it’s not good, to keep it inside. It eats away at you.”

“I’m fine,” Stan repeats, his voice weak and shaking. He looks so isolated, standing with his hands clenched tightly in the material, his shoulders hunched and his head ducked as he solidly ignores Richie and Beverly’s pleading, and Eddie has no idea how to bridge the sudden chasm between them.

“Suh-Stanley,” Bill says suddenly, and his voice is loud enough in the quiet to make Eddie jump. Stan’s eyes jerk up to meet Bill’s without hesitation, and Eddie gets it; Bill is still their leader, after all these years. They all know it. 

Bill takes a step towards him, and holds a hand out, with a pleading expression on his face. “Are they r-right? Did… did you suh-see the d-deadlights?”

Stan does not answer. His eyes flicker between everyone’s, desperation suddenly shining from them as a tear trickles down his cheek, and Eddie’s heart sinks miserably. 

Once again, his thoughts go back to the night Richie called him from his hotel room. He remembers Richie’s voice shaking, and how he stumbled his way through a discussion about Stan’s nightmare, and Richie’s own reaction to it; _“I know we’re all going through it. I just… I recognise…”_

His heart thuds in his chest as his stomach swirls guiltily. Richie had all but spelled his misery out for him, then rapidly changed the subject, and Eddie had been so out of it that he just let it happen.

He could have figured it out back then. He could have been helping, all this time.

Stan’s head drops, and he buries his face in the shirt, and Richie and Bev are both by his side in a heartbeat as his shoulders begin to shake. 

The two of them stand either side of him, and wrap their arms around him in a three-person hug. Richie rests his head on Stan’s shoulder, and Beverly leans up to murmur something quietly into his ear; Eddie cannot hear what she says, but it makes Stan sob, and his arms creep around to cling to the two of them. Beverly shushes him, and Richie pulls both of them even closer. 

They stand together for a moment, wrapped up in each other as everyone else stares, seemingly struck dumb by shock. 

Eddie feels as though his brain has been thrown into disarray yet again.

How can It still be messing them up in new ways, so long after they finally put It in the ground? Are they destined to forever be fucked up for having saved an ungrateful town from its doom? 

How can this be their lot in life?

It’s not fair, he thinks furiously, the words circling his head as he watches his friends hold each other. It’s never been fair.

Mike finds his voice first, and when he speaks, horror is lacing his words. “It got him alone, remember?” he mumbles. “In the sewers. It… It had him by the face when we found him. Its mouth was around – _God_ , how could he go so long without saying…?”

His words trail into nothingness as he strides forward, and his movement breaks whatever spell is affecting the rest of them; they follow at his heels, and the four of them surround Bev, Stan and Richie, arms linked together around them as they join the hug.

Eddie feels a protective surge of affection wash through him as their circle closes. He loves them all so much.

There’s power in all of them, he thinks dizzily, as he looks his friends over; power he’s never understood, and could not begin to explain, but he knows there is something special about the seven of them.

They’ve changed the world together. They’re a force to be reckoned with. 

He’s right. It was never fair, what they had to do. What was asked of them by an otherwise uncaring world.

But he’s so glad they did it. And he is so, so glad he has them. 

If they ever got anything close to a reward for their suffering, it was each other.

Stan lifts his head after a moment, and fussily dries his eyes with the t-shirt clenched in his hands. “I’m all right,” he murmurs, and smiles weakly when Bev presses a kiss to his cheek. He chuckles when Richie does the same, and tilts his head to return the gesture to the two of them.

They all back off a bit after that, to give Stan some space, and Richie concentrates on setting up the couch bed for him. “This wasn’t, like, a ploy to change your mind,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet. “You can still have the couch. I just wanted you to know… I get it, y’know? _We_ get it. It’s shitty.”

“Awful,” Bev agrees. She rubs softly at the back of Stan’s neck, and produces a sad smile when he turns to her. “I don’t know how I didn’t realise back then, Stanley. I’m -”

“- I didn’t _want_ you to realise,” Stan says quietly. He offers a weak smile in return. “None of you. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t have it as bad as you, anyway. It was only a few seconds, for me. You went through it for longer.”

“Did it feel like only a few seconds?” Beverly asks, her voice sharp, and Stan’s eyes drop.

“No.”

“Then why -”

“- I didn’t want the attention,” Stan admits. He shrugs feebly, and looks at the shirt. “Everyone asked you so many questions, and… We all kept focusing on it, y’know? What you’d… what we’d seen. What our futures were going to be. But nobody can live like that.”

“Like what?” Eddie asks quietly.

Stan sighs. His hands shape the air delicately as he tries to feel out his thoughts. “Like… always looking to the future. Always trying to puzzle out how it was connected to who we were then. It’s awful. Anybody would go crazy, trying to make things fit. I knew it wasn’t good for us.”

He sighs, and meets Beverly’s eyes. “And then you moved away, and everyone else just… stopped talking about it. The future, and what you told them they’d seen. Nobody mentioned it again, and it was easier, it was _so much easier_ for us not to have to think about it all. But if everyone knew that I had seen… I knew you would all want to…”

Reeling, Eddie casts his mind back over the time after they drove Pennywise off for the first time.

Beverly had moved away not long after everything had gone down. He remembers her telling them everything she could remember from the deadlights before she had left, talking for hours as though she was determined to make use what little time she had left with them.

He remembers how she had seemed so scared, and the way she had spoken so deliberately, as though she was carefully skirting around unspeakable horrors that could break any one of them if she said too much. 

He also remembers thinking about it every time he saw her; coming up with more and more questions about their future lives, wanting to know as much as she could tell them, and all but hounding her about it until she moved away.

Stan had stayed in Derry for years after Bev left. Would their questions have continued for all that time, if they’d had the option? 

Would any of them have been able to stand it?

He shudders, and folds his arms tightly. “So you kept quiet and tried to deal with it on your own,” Eddie says. He glares at Stan, and then pointedly turns his eyes to Richie. “Even if it meant suffering alone. Right?”

Richie turns red, but Eddie is the only one looking at him as Stan nods. “Right. I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Bev hugs him again.

“You can talk to me about anything you need,” she murmurs, and looks at Richie. “And Richie too, right?”

“Right.” Richie nods, and finishes smoothing out the blanket. He gives the pillow a thump, then he gets to his feet, and smiles tiredly at both of them. “Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow, at some point. When our brains are aren’t pickled in booze. And I was thinking we could set up a separate group chat, just for the three of us. To talk it out, whenever we need to.”

“That’s a good idea,” Stan says softly. He shoots Richie a grateful look, then turns it on Beverly. “Thanks. Both of you.”

“Hey, don’t look at me, I had nothing to do with this plan,” Bev chuckles lightly. She looks down at the shirt, and laughs. “For a start, if Richie had told me what he was thinking, I could’ve designed something with a little more style.”

“Fuck you, I have style!” Richie claims, a man wearing still wearing a Hawaiian shirt with frosting smeared on the back, and a Donald Duck headband.

It breaks the tension hanging over the group, at least, and they dissolve into laughter. 

They could always rely on Richie for that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Eddie has an awakening.

They are reluctant to leave Stan alone after that revelation, but he is adamant that he is fine, and yawns are starting to overtake every one of the Losers. 

Still, they all drag their feet as he pointedly gets ready to sleep. He heads off to the bathroom, and rolls his eyes when they are all still awkwardly present when he returns, clad in his underwear and the t-shirt Richie gave him. It is much too big from him, the billowy material hanging from his slim form and leaving one shoulder bare, in a way which makes Eddie’s exhausted, drunk mind think of _Flashdance_. 

He snorts to himself as he pictures Stan prancing about in a black leotard, back arched in a chair and drenching himself with water, and tries to marry the image to the tired, ruffled man blinking at him. 

Then Stan stretches, groaning as something in his spine pops, and Eddie is treated to the shirt riding up and revealing a flash of his toned stomach and a sharp hip bone, and Eddie cannot stop himself from staring.

He hears Stan speak to him after a moment, but misses whatever he says; startled, and having stared for what feels like a century, he collects himself enough to drag his gaze upwards. 

All he succeeds in doing is shifting his stare from Stan’s stomach to the hint of lush, dark hair peeking through the collar of the shirt as it hangs over his chest. Stan is hairier than he had expected, somehow. 

Not that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about his friends’ bodies. 

After what feels like centuries, he remembers that Stan had said something, and hurriedly snaps his eyes to his face. He finds Stan staring at him, seemingly impatient for him to respond, but that knowing smirk is back at the corner of his lips.

Eddie clears his throat hurriedly, and wonders when all of the moisture had left his mouth. Perhaps his hangover is developing already. “What?”

“I _said_ ,” Stan says, and flaps his hands irritably towards Eddie, “Get out of the way!”

“Oh.” Eddie realises that he is hovering beside the couch, and scoots to the side. “Uh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Stan watches him for a second longer, then grins. He brushes his hands innocently over his chest, as though wiping himself off, and asks, “You were staring - was there something on my shirt, or…?”

Eddie scowls as he feels a guilty flush rushing through him, starting at his throat and staining its way upwards. “Yes,” he says shortly. “There - there was, but you got it.”

Stan chuckles softly with a shake of his head. “Uh-huh. Thanks, Eddie.” 

He pulls back the blanket and seats himself, then looks up at all of them, and suddenly his teasing expression veers back towards fatigued. “Okay. Well. _Goodnight_ , everyone.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk anything through?” Mike offers for the fourth time, his eyes soft and shining with kindness despite the drooping of his eyelids, and Stan’s mouth pulls into a particularly exasperated line.

He pointedly swings his legs beneath the covers and pulls them up to his chin, then jabs a finger blindly at the hall. “Go! To! Sleep! I’m _fine_!”

“B-but what if you have a nih-nightmare?” Bill asks.

Stan’s eyes roll. “Then I will draw on almost thirty years of experience and deal with it like a big boy,” he drawls. “I’m sure whatever monster is lurking under Richie’s couch is no more frightening than the one under my own bed back in Georgia.”

His joke falls flat as they all stare at him. Bill offers no further protests, but his eyebrows pull together worriedly, and Stan’s head drops as he lets out a soft sigh. “Look, it’s sweet that you all care so much, but I’m fine. I promise. Okay? I don’t need you hovering over me. You can safely drop this for tonight.”

Nobody responds, and Stan’s face twists into a mulish expression. “Or you can at least start pestering Bev and Rich about it! I’m not sure why we’re focusing on me so much, when they have just as much trauma as I do. Go interrogate them!”

“No, don’t do that,” Bev says with a small smile.

“I’ve been trying,” Eddie mumbles, at the same time. Richie lets out a small huff of laughter, and shoots him a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, I can confirm that.”

“I will be fine out here, I promise,” Stan adds. “And if, for whatever reason, I’m not, then I’ll be sure to hunt one of you out, okay? Now go get some rest! Don’t we have plans we all need to be awake for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Ben mumbles, and starts heading down the hallway, tugging lightly on Bev’s hand. “We gotta go see the Hollywood sign. We need to take a selfie with it. Please don’t deprive me of this. Night, everyone. Sleep, uh. Sleep well? Or try to, I guess.”

Bev echoes his goodnight and closes the bedroom door after them with a wave. Mike and Bill share a glance, and Bill sighs after a moment. “All right. Cuh-come on,” he mumbles, and heads down the hall. “My – _our_ ruh-room is this way.”

“Night, guys,” Mike says, smiling at the rest of them, and follows at Bill’s heels. 

Richie and Eddie share a glance. Eddie smiles tremulously, suddenly consumed by a weird rush of nerves, and Richie turns to Stan and opens his mouth.

Stanley groans, and picks up his pillow to smash it over his own face. “Go to bed!” he yells through the material, and Eddie cannot help but laugh.

“Jeez, no need to be so dramatic, Stanley,” he says with a sniff, as he aims a wicked grin at Rich.

Richie catches on immediately, and smirks in return. “Yeah, man, where do you get off? I was only gonna wish you goodnight!”

“He’s so fucking rude,” Eddie agrees. “What an asshole.”

Stan emerges from behind the pillow with cold fury burning in his eyes, and the two of them turn on their heels and run away as one. Both giggle as the pillow bounces harmlessly after them. 

Richie drags Eddie into his room with a hand on his wrist and slams the door behind them. They both press themselves against it, as though Stanley might try to batter his way in to exact his revenge, but all that happens is they burst into laughter as they hear him muttering and reluctantly dragging himself out of bed to retrieve his pillow. 

Their laughter has shattered Eddie’s nerves, at least. He grins at Richie as he leans against the door, and suddenly feels all of thirteen again; the two of them conspiring together to annoy their friends, and coming out of it rolling around in shared amusement. 

After a second, Richie seems to realise his fingers are still wrapped around Eddie’s wrist, and he abruptly lets go with a short laugh. Eddie absently clasps his hands together, feeling a tingling ring around his wrist where Richie’s fingers had lain. 

“So,” Eddie says lightly. He glances at the bed, and tries to remember the last time he actually slept beside anyone. It’s been years. “You a leftie or a rightie?”

“Oh, uh.” Richie waves vaguely at the nightstand, and turns away to start rooting through his wardrobe. “I sleep that side.”

Eddie nods as his eyes take in the bedside table. The framed photograph of him has vanished. “No problem.”

“Hey, Eds?” 

He looks up, and finds Richie looking awkwardly at him. He smiles weakly, and takes off the headband to set it in his wardrobe, then ruffles his hair in a tired gesture. He looks suddenly exhausted, as though all of his energy has abruptly drained away. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

Eddie blinks. “For what?”

Richie waves the ridiculous deadlights shirt at him. “This was your idea,” he says, his voice quiet. Eddie frowns at him, confused, and Richie laughs. “Well, kind of? Not exactly, but you remember – you probably don’t remember, I don’t know.”

“Try me,” Eddie suggests.

“It’s stupid.” Eddie merely arches an eyebrow, and Richie shrugs, and carries on. “So a little while ago you offered to listen, if I wanted to talk about my, uh, nightmares? And you suggested maybe I could talk to the others, too.”

He swallows, and then raises his eyes to meet Eddie’s determinedly. “I meant what I said. My dreams are super shitty, and I don’t want to put that on you. It’s too much, man.”

Eddie bites down on his immediate surge of furious indignance. He’s pretty sure Richie doesn’t actually _mean_ to suggest he wouldn’t be able to cope with whatever he dreams about, and Eddie isn’t looking to pick a fight.

Or at least, not right now. Not when he’s much more interested in trying to get Richie to open up to him. 

Eddie’s not sure if he’s being fuelled by his own impatient need to help Richie, or by a surge of desire to feel closer to him after a night spent learning that there’s always been more to Richie than he’s acknowledged. 

Or hell, maybe it’s just the alcohol that’s sloshing around in his brain. 

Whatever is pushing him on, however sensible an idea this might actually be, this feels like a good time to talk.

He keeps his voice light when he says, “Yeah, I remember. And I remember something else, too.”

“Uh… okay? That’s real ominous of you there, Eds. Real villain talk.” Richie steeples his fingers together and stares at Eddie from above them. “I’ve been expecting you, Richard!”

“Just shut up and listen, okay?” Eddie snaps, and takes a deep breath as Richie quietens himself with an indulgent chuckle. “We kind of talked about your nightmares before we texted about them that time. Like, weeks before, when you and Stan met up in Portland.”

Richie’s brow creases into a frown. “We did? I thought we just talked about Stan’s.”

“Well, yeah, we did, pretty much,” Eddie admits. “You changed the subject before I could figure out what you were saying, because God forbid you ever just say what’s actually on your mind, right?”

Richie laughs awkwardly, and makes a show of looking around the room. “Wow. What is this, a roast? Are you filming this, Eds? You know your camera better have a selfie mode, right? Because I’m pretty sure we’re just as bad as each other when it comes to opening up, mister.”

“And you _just_ proved my point,” Eddie says dryly. He levels a firm look at Richie, who merely offers a helpless shrug. “You pulled this same old shit then, too. You started talking about Stan’s scar to change the subject. But before that, you said that you recognised something about him, and I had no idea what the hell you meant, because it was four in the morning, and trying to keep up with you is hard enough when I’m properly rested, man.”

Richie bursts into laughter, and his eyes crinkle as he beams at Eddie. “Aww, you do it better than anybody else ever could, Spaghetti! You could teach lessons! ‘Coping with Richie Tozier’s Bullshit: A Ted Talk’. Well, more of a Ted Rant, I guess, huh?”

“I know you’re trying to distract me again, and I promise it’s not gonna work this time,” Eddie says firmly. Richie falls silent immediately, his mouth clicking shut, and his eyes fix on Eddie, wide and wary.

Eddie sighs, and softens his tone into something kinder. “I didn’t get it at the time. But I understand, now. You figured out that Stanley must have seen the deadlights because you recognised his reaction to his nightmares. It was the same as yours, wasn’t it?”

There is a long silence, before Richie sighs, long and exhausted. He nods shortly, his eyes looking anywhere but Eddie. “Pretty much. We don’t… It’s not exactly the same reaction. But the… the _ferocity_ of it, jeez. That’s what I recognised, I guess.”

Richie blinks and drags a hand through his messy hair, before he aims an incredulous look at Eddie. “Man, what the hell, Eds? That conversation was forever ago! Why’re you still thinking about that? Hell, I didn’t think you’d have thought twice about our _last_ little chat about these stupid dreams, never mind that one. You really remember all that?”

“Do I remember my best friend calling me at three in the morning, practically having a panic attack in a hotel bathroom?” Eddie snorts, rolling his eyes. “Dumbass. Of course I remember it!”

“Oh. Well. Okay, whatever, man! I don’t think - it wasn’t, like, momentous,” Richie says, and there’s a casual lightness to his tone that sets Eddie on edge, like maybe he really thinks conversations with him aren’t significant enough for Eddie to remember.

Like maybe he thinks that what he says just doesn’t matter.

Eddie folds his arms across his chest, and fixes him with a blazing look. “Are you for real right now?”

“What?” Richie’s brows scrunch into a confused expression. “What’s your problem? It was just a stupid call, man. I was freaking out over nothing. I called you at ass o’clock in the morning just because I got a little panicky and wanted -”

He cuts himself off. Eddie waits impatiently for a second, before he rolls his eyes. “You wanted?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Richie claims, but his mouth purses nervously as Eddie glowers at him, and he throws his hands up in petulant defeat. “Jesus, _fine_! I just wanted to talk to you, okay? You – you always make me feel better, so I wanted to talk to you. That’s all! It’s no big deal, all right? I was, like, barely awake when I picked up my phone. If I had been a bit more with it I probably would have talked myself out of calling you at all.”

Eddie opens his mouth, then hesitates. Richie is getting more defensive by the minute, his hands twisting the shirt nervously and his eyes darting around the room. 

He pictures them going to bed like this; a cloud hanging sullenly between them, irritation flashing like lightning, and the thought turns his stomach.

He takes a deep breath, and forces his voice into something softer when he speaks. “It was a big deal to me, okay?” 

“Because I interrupted your sleep pattern, I know,” Richie says lightly, with a strained laugh. “I probably fucked you up for days after, right? I bet you had to pop double your dose of melatonin to get back on track.”

“Because, _asshole_ , first of all, I _want_ to be there for you if you need somebody,” Eddie says slowly. “You think I like the idea that you almost talked yourself out of calling? Is that meant to comfort me? You were a mess when I picked up the phone, and I got the impression you felt better by the end of it, right?”

“I guess.” Richie does not look at him; he turns his back to open a drawer, seemingly at random, and starts picking through its contents as though they are much more diverting than whatever Eddie could be saying. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest again, then purposefully drops them, trying to keep his posture open and inviting. “I _like_ that I was able to help, Rich! I don’t want you to have to go through hell on your own if talking to me will help. Even if it’s late, man. I don’t give a shit what time it is. Whenever you need me, just call. It’s worth it.” He hesitates, and adds, “It’s always worth it, for you. I promise.”

Richie’s hands stop fiddling in the drawer, and Eddie watches him take a deep breath. The strong lines of his back expand, and Eddie’s eyes flicker helplessly to watch the movement of his shoulders. Richie has grown broader than he had ever expected him to.

He wishes, suddenly, that he could have seen Richie change from the gangly boy he used to be, all pale skin and clumsy limbs, into who he is now. Wishes he could have marked the passage of time by watching him filling out and broaden and grow into himself. 

He seems to be making himself smaller, now. Eddie watches his shoulders hunch, and his head drop, and practically sees him retreat inside himself, as though the tall, strong body is just armour worn to protect his heart.

“That’s pretty fucking sweet of you, Eduardo, but you don’t have to build it up into something it wasn’t,” he mumbles, refusing to look at Eddie as he gazes fixedly into the drawer. “I was freaked out, you un-freaked me. That’s it. Just a regular phone call. It was nothing.”

“Second of all,” Eddie says, determinedly steamrolling over Richie’s protests, “That regular fucking phone call was actually a big part of me realising I wanted a divorce.”

That gets Richie’s attention. He whips around and aims a goggle-eyed stare at Eddie, openly astonished. “What the fuck?”

“I told you I left Myra just after that student gig you did, right?”

“Yeah – well, no, _eventually_ you told me that, after you kept it quiet -” Richie’s lips draw into a tight line as Eddie glares at him, and he nods jerkily. “Deflecting. Hypocrisy. Right. Sorry. Carry on.”

“I meant it literally. I left her _just_ after that. Like, the next day. The morning after you called me,” Eddie explains. He takes a deep breath, and has to force himself to keep eye contact with Richie. “That… that phone call with you was actually a big part of me realising I didn’t want to be with her anymore.”

Richie’s jaw drops. “Wha – wait, _what_?”

“I was pretty tired the next morning, obviously, and she was fussing over me,” Eddie explains, and his mouth crooks into a half-smile as he looks away from Richie. 

His heart is thudding dangerously in his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s the whiskey or his growing nerves that is making his stomach churn. “I knew damn well that there was nothing wrong with me, that I just hadn’t slept enough because we were talking, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept insisting that I wasn’t well. That I was working too hard, and something had… upset my delicate system, or something.”

“That sounds pretty fucking familiar,” Richie mutters, almost too quiet for Eddie to hear. His voice is colder than Eddie has ever heard from him.

He nods shakily after a moment spent gathering himself. “It was always like that with her, I guess. Or it was by the end, at least. It was like she was always terrified I was about to get sick. Nothing was ever too small to panic about, y’know? _Especially_ not getting enough sleep. I told her again and again that’s all it was, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept trying to get me to see a doctor, or add more fucking vitamins to my pill caddy, when all I needed was a goddamn nap. And normally I would have listened, and just let her run my life, but this time, I…”

He hesitates, and chances a look at Richie, who is watching him closely with the t-shirt twisted taut between his hands. His shocked expression has melted into something softer; something more like pride, Eddie realises in a burst of warmth.

It encourages him onward. He keeps his voice quiet as he speaks. “I remembered _you_ , telling me I’m brave, and… and when you called, you said I was always the first person you want to talk to about stuff.”

He watches a flush spread across Richie’s cheeks before he ducks his head. “Wow. I, uh, I did? I just straight up told you that? Uh-huh. Jeez, four a.m. Richie is a fucking sap, huh?”

“Whatever, man,” Eddie huffs irritably, stung by his dismissive attitude. “It meant a lot to me, even if you played it off as a joke then, too.”

He rubs his face self-consciously, trailing his fingers over his scar. Richie’s eyes fix on it, and Eddie shrugs tightly after a moment. “Well, even if you didn’t actually mean it, or whatever -”

“- That’s not – I’m not saying I didn’t, Eds, I just -” 

“- You made me realise that I just… didn’t feel that way about Myra. And that I never had. I never wanted to tell her anything, man. I used to work overtime, just to make sure I didn’t have to be around her as much. She was _never_ the first person I wanted to talk to. She was just… the only person I _had_ , y’know?”

“Eddie,” Richie murmurs. He swallows, and his face screws up into a grimace. “That sucks, dude. I didn’t mean to, like... drive anything home. Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Eddie says quickly. He takes a step closer to Richie, and gives him a smile that trembles just a bit before he looks away. “It was a good thing to realise, honestly. Well, I mean, no, it was definitely shitty, but… but it was for the best, y’know? You made me realise that she wasn’t the only person in my life any more. That things didn’t have to be this way, if I didn’t want them to be. But also…”

He hesitates, and turns his eyes to Richie. He wonders, in a moment of panic, what he will see on his face; pity, maybe. Or worse, mockery. 

But he’s just smiling softly, in something close to wonder, and he’s waiting for Eddie to carry on speaking, like listening to him is the most important thing he could be doing right now.

It buoys him. He takes a breath, and goes on, his hands shaping his thoughts as he speaks. “You made me realise that even if she _was_ the only person in my life, that it didn’t mean I had to stay with her. That I didn’t have to live like that. The two of us making each other miserable, just because we couldn’t be what the other person needed.”

“Heavy stuff,” Richie mumbles. He shifts in place, and ruffles his hair, before looking through his lashes at Eddie. There is something shy and hesitant about it that makes Eddie’s heart melt. “Me calling you because I was shitting myself about Stanley’s dream really did all that for you?”

“It’s stupid, I know,” Eddie admits with a sheepish chuckle. “I just realised that I was happy to talk to you in the middle of the goddamn night for as long as you needed, but I couldn’t stand dealing with Myra worrying about me for five fucking minutes. It put some things into perspective, y’know? I decided that if I could just be brave, like you said I am, then I could do what was best for both of us. And then maybe I could be happier, even if it meant being on my own.”

“Holy shit,” Richie breathes. He lets out a sigh, before raising his head and giving Eddie a serious look. “I had no idea about any of this, man. You’re not joking, right?”

Eddie shakes his head firmly. “I wouldn’t. Not about this, Rich.”

“Really?” Richie grins, and there is suddenly a wicked shine to his eyes. “You wouldn’t joke about the fact that you had a fucking _pill caddy_?”

“Oh, fuck you, asshole!” Eddie snaps, stung, but Richie giggles, and after a moment of glaring, it catches. Eddie dissolves into laughter, and walks closer to smack Richie lightly in the chest. “You dickbag! _That’s_ what you got from me bearing my goddamn heart to you?”

“Your face!” Richie giggles. He holds up the t-shirt as a pathetic shield, hiding behind it as Eddie paws at him through the material. “I couldn’t resist, Spaghetti!”

“Hilarious,” Eddie grumbles, hiding his smile. “I can see writing your own material is going well. Look, focus up, okay?”

“Okay. Focused. But only because it means I get to stare at your cute cute _cute_ face,” Richie agrees, as he sways slightly on the spot. 

“Fuck off,” Eddie snaps, but it’s instinctive, his lips moving of their own accord as he tries to make his brain work. His mouth is dry, his eyes heavy, and he struggles to think of his point; he’s definitely not used to drinking this much any more. 

He brightens as he remembers what they had been talking about, before he opened his heart and let so much come spilling out. God, he just wanted to get Richie to open up to him, but here he is, sharing the stuff he’s been carrying around in his head for months. 

At least there is a catharsis to getting it off his chest. He feels like a millstone he’s been struggling to lift has been eroded to half its size. It’s just always been so easy to talk to Richie. 

He really wishes Richie felt the same way in return.

He wonders, dizzily, if he’ll regret all this tomorrow. 

Oh, well. That’s a problem for sober Eddie.

He prods Richie in the chest, and forces his meandering thoughts back to their earlier topic through the haze of whiskey blanketing his brain. “That was it – Stanley’s nightmare. _Yes_ , I definitely remember that phone call, Rich. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. What were you saying about Stan’s dreams?”

“Oh, right,” Richie nods, surprised and then suddenly sheepish. “It doesn’t matter, man. It’s not, like, divorce your mom-wife levels of importance.”

“For fuck’s sake! Come _on_ , Richie! Will you stop acting like I won’t give a shit about what you have to say? Is that really what you think of me?” Eddie bursts, and the words rattle sharply around in the silence between them, sounding just as pleading as they are angry.

Richie’s eyes widen as he stares back at him. He tenses in place, one hand tightening in the shirt until his fingers turn white. “No! Of course I don’t – no!”

“Because it matters to me, man! Of course it matters! It’s _you_!” 

Eddie takes a deep breath as his head spins. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

Still, he wouldn’t be Edward Kaspbrak if he wasn’t stubborn as all hell. 

He sighs, and levels a beseeching look at Richie. “Look, I care about what you’re going through, okay? I want to know. Would you please just talk to me? Please?”

Richie blinks, momentarily frozen in place as he stares at Eddie, before he nods awkwardly. He ducks his head, and his eyes fix on the floor. “Wow. You’re not afraid to bust out those eyes when you need to, huh? They’re fucking – you could talk a guy into selling his soul with ‘em, Eds.”

“Richie…”

“Jeez. Uh, okay, man, you don’t have to… Just don’t blame me if it’s boring as hell, okay?”

Eddie takes a deep breath, and starts to count to ten, doing his best to tamp down on the urge to really start yelling. 

He suspects Richie knows what he’s doing, judging from the hurried way he starts speaking again. “Well, okay, so, seeing Stan’s reaction was… kind of a revelation, I guess. Knowing that somebody other than me and Bev was going through the same kind of shit.”

He turns the shirt over in his hands, and shrugs. “I mean, I know Bev knows damn well what those dreams are like, but I kind of didn’t ever want to pester her about mine, y’know? She’s had them for fucking years, and she already had us interrogating her about them.”

“You didn’t think she could handle talking about them some more?”

“What? No! God, no. Are you kidding?” Richie half-laughs in astonishment. “Bev’s the toughest motherfucker I know, man! No, I just… I didn’t want to pile on. Not when she deserves a break. She already does too much running around after us, right?”

“Right,” Eddie nods, thinking back on the way Bev had supported him through his divorce. He really doesn’t know what he would have done without her, or Ben.

“I don’t want to add to all that. So I figured I could just soldier on and deal with it by myself, like a brave little toaster.”

“I don’t think doing fuck-all about it counts as dealing with it, but sure, whatever,” Eddie frowns. “Okay, you decided to keep it to yourself. So how come Stan changed that?”

“I had no idea he’d seen the deadlights, until I heard him screaming,” Richie says levelly. “He gave me a hell of a kick, too – like, we’re talking a fucking donkey kick, man. My shin had a huge bruise for weeks. He was thrashing and sobbing and it… it rang a bell, y’know?” He mimes doing just that. “ _Ding ding ding ding ding!_ Stanley’s having himself some goddamn deadlight dreams!”

“But he didn’t actually tell you as much?”

Richie huffs, and shakes his head. “Got it in one. I woke him up, and asked if he wanted to talk about it, and he fucking closed off on me. He rolled over and told me he just had muscle cramps and needed some quinine. Bullshit! I could _see_ him crying! Typical fucking Stan the Man, am I right?”

He drags his hands through his hair and rolls his eyes. “So there I was, staring at the ceiling, knowing exactly what was going on, but also absolutely sure there would be no way he’d just come out and admit it if I tried to push him. And the whole time he’s pretending to be asleep beside me.”

“But you and Stan are so close,” Eddie murmurs, frowning in confusion, and Richie sighs.

“Yeah, we are. He likes to look after me, y’know? Well, he watches out for all of us, really, but I guess I’m kind of a special case. A particularly enormous fuck-up for him to try and fix.”

“Rich,” Eddie admonishes. “C’mon. There’s more to it than that. He cares about you, man. Anyone could see that.”

“Oh, sure, he loves me,” Richie agrees without hesitation. “I have zero fucking doubt about that, Eds, you’re right on the money there. And I love him too, absolutely! But he – god, this sounds stupid, but imagine, okay, imagine you had a little brother who acted like he was your big brother. But also you’re not actually related, but, like, you _are_ , because what does blood actually matter, right? That’s Stanley.”

“That’s Stanley?” echoes Eddie uncertainly.

Richie nods, with the vehemence of the drunk. “Bingo! That’s Stan the Man. He wants to help you, because he loves you, and you want to help him when he needs it, because you love him right back. Only he doesn’t fucking want your help! Because he is the _helper_ , not the… the help-ee.”

Eddie thinks back to the way Stan had steadfastly denied that anything was amiss despite the pleading of Richie and Beverly. He thinks of the anguish clear on his face and, despite it all, the refusal to accept help. He sighs. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah? You get it? That little shit has a martyr streak a mile fucking wide,” Richie snorts. “Nothing’s too much trouble when it comes to looking after somebody else, but just fucking _try_ to get him to open up about himself. He’ll claim he’s doing just fine, even if he’s actually falling apart.”

That is officially too much, and Eddie cannot help himself; he bursts into incredulous laughter. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he demands. “Jesus fucking Christ, Rich! Do you even hear yourself? You think _you_ have any kind of moral high ground about this?”

Richie stares at him, startled into silence by Eddie’s hoots of laughter, before he lets out an awkward chuckle. He drags a hand through his messy hair and offers a tight smile. “All right. Sure. Pot, kettle, I know. I’m trying to be better about it, okay?”

“You could’ve fooled me!”

“Whatever, man. Can we focus on _Stanley’s_ particular brand of repression for a moment?”

“Okay,” Eddie chuckles. He tilts his head as he watches Richie fiddle restlessly with the shirt again. “So what made you think of the shirts? It’s not how _I_ would have gone about trying to get someone to acknowledge their trauma.”

“I know. It’s stupid, I get that,” Richie shrugs. Eddie cannot stop his eyes from dropping down to follow the movement of his broad shoulders as though hypnotised. 

He swallows. “It’s not stupid,” he offers, suddenly very glad that Richie’s eyes are fixed on the shirt. “It’s… it’s very _you_ , that’s all. The fact that I wouldn’t have done it doesn’t make it bad, Richie. That’s not what I… I just wondered… Why this way?”

Richie shrugs again. “It wasn’t… The shirt was just, like, a way into it that I thought he wouldn’t be able to close down immediately, y’know? You can’t ignore a prop like you can a question.”

“You didn’t want to just talk to him about it?” Eddie asks, and Richie bursts into incredulous laughter.

“Me, señor? _Me_? Talk? You ever hear of me talking good?”

“You’re a fucking stand-up comedian! Talking is your job!” Eddie hisses, and Richie merely laughs harder.

“That’s what’s so funny!”

He laughs for a while, apparently tickled by the mere concept of his being able to have a serious discussion, before the sight of Eddie’s hands clenching as he once again begins to count settles him down.

“Yeah, well. I’d already tried to ask him about it at the time, obviously, but it hadn’t worked. So I figured, maybe in the cold light of day, he’ll, like, open up to it a bit? So I tried again the next morning, but…” 

“No?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head ruefully. “He was so fucking dismissive. I tried to kinda nudge him a bit, right? But he flat out refused to acknowledge that anything was going on. He just went into the bit about him being a bad sleeper, y’know? Which, like, he _is_ , don’t get me wrong, but there’s bad sleep, and then there’s…”

“Deadlights dreams.”

“Right. So by that point I was pretty sure that talking was just… never gonna work on him. Or not me talking, at least,” he hedges. “I figured… maybe if we _all_ … Stan’s good at fronting to a point, and then he crumbles, right? But he’s also real, real good at dodging out of situations like that. So I knew that if I wanted to help him, I’d have to find a way to get everyone to rally around him, without him anticipating it. Like, if I just tried to just bring it up in conversation, he’d find a way to skip out of it, y’know?” 

He waves the shirt at Eddie, like a flag. “But I knew _this_ would be just stupid enough that he wouldn’t see it coming.”

“You were trying to fly under his radar?” Eddie chuckles softly. “To go for something so un-Stan that he wouldn’t have a chance to prepare for it?”

“Right!” Richie nods with a chuckle. “I figured this would make a statement for me. Like, fucking literally, it actually states the problem on it! And I knew Bev would get what I was saying when I handed ‘em out to the three of us, and I knew she’d get on board, and I just hoped that the rest of you would all follow.”

He laughs softly, and shakes his head again. “I was so, so glad when Billy finally asked him. I think if _he’d_ stayed quiet, we wouldn’t have managed to get anywhere.”

“But Stan couldn’t ignore Bill,” Eddie murmurs in agreement. He smiles slowly, watching Richie light up and feeling a rush of fondness swirl through him in response.

“No way. Not Big Bill! And if we could just make him see that everyone’s got his back, I knew he’d think about actually opening up to us, y’know? So…” 

He waves the shirt again, and gives Eddie a sheepish look. “I got the idea when you were texting me about my dreams. I was like, how the fuck do I bring this up to anybody when talking isn’t an option? And then it came to me. Novelty t-shirts! Fucking _obviously_!”

Eddie bursts into laughter alongside him, then suddenly Richie strides closer. Eddie finds himself wrapped in a hug, long arms squeezing him tightly as Richie rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Thanks for offering to listen,” he says against his ear, his voice warm and teasing a shiver from Eddie. “You’re a good guy, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Hey, any time,” Eddie says, after a second of surprised silence. He grins, and adds, “Thanks for accidentally talking me into a divorce.”

“My pleasure!” Richie laughs, and squeezes him tighter.

Eddie wraps his arms around Richie in return, and relaxes into the embrace. He knows all too well that he’ll be back in New York before long, and opportunities to hug Rich will be few and far between. 

He’ll take them where he can get them.

Until Richie pulls away, and Eddie realises there is something smeared on his hand. “What the hell?” he asks, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he wriggles his fingers experimentally. He flings his hand away from him and gives Richie a disbelieving look. “What the fuck is on your shirt? I give you one hug and you get sticky shit all over me? You’re disgusting!”

Richie’s laughing, and bends to examine Eddie’s hand. His own long fingers wrap around Eddie’s wrist again, curled loosely and sending a shiver through Eddie, but Richie seems not to notice. He just laughs after a moment of squinting at him. “It’s fucking – it’s from the doughnut Bill threw at me! It’s just frosting, man! Nothing to get your panties tangled up over!”

“God! It’s been hours! Why didn’t you change your shirt when you first got it on you?” Eddie demands. He reaches out to pointedly wipe his fingers over the front of Richie’s shirt, trying to clean himself off. “You’re so fucking gross, you slob.”

Richie sighs, long-suffering and tired, but he remains in place and allows Eddie to use his shirt as a cloth with a grimace. “Yeah, thanks, dude. I’m definitely the disgusting one here,” he says dryly. 

Eddie reaches up, trying to wipe his fingers further on Richie’s face, and that is when he backs off with a whine. “Fuck off, man! There’s wipes on the nightstand, okay? Use those!”

Eddie does so, chuckling. He’s even more worn out by now – it’s late, and he’s had a full day, and more alcohol than he’s had in a long time – but he feels kind of fizzy and wired after hearing Richie open up to him.

He wipes his hands clean, and watches Richie change out of the corner of his eye, ignoring the flush of shame that tells him he should turn around.

He’s seen Richie naked before. They were teenage boys together, with a propensity for spending entire days splashing around in a lake in their tightie-whities. Richie has nothing he hasn’t already seen.

But there’s still an unexpected salaciousness in watching him wriggle out of his jeans and strip off until he’s down to his boxers. 

Eddie is struck dumb by the sight he makes. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut as an unexpected flood of heat washes over him, starting in his belly and swirling quickly through his whole body. His face flushes and his fingers clench into his pants, clinging to the material as he turns helplessly to watch Richie more closely.

He’s drunk and stupid and, frankly, it’s been so long since he had sex, that just for a moment, he has no idea what is happening to him. He feels like he’s on fire; sparks flicker through him, licking along his nerves and leaving him squirming restlessly in place. 

It’s only when Richie kicks his way out of his jeans and pulls off his shirt, leaving Eddie staring at his smooth, pale skin, that he realises what he’s feeling in a rush of frantic shock. 

A dark heat settles low in his belly, and throbs there as he stifles a gasp.

Eddie finds himself staring helplessly, his eyes darting over Richie and cataloguing features with an eagerness that leaves him reeling.

He has filled out beautifully since they were kids; he’s grown into his height, with wide shoulders and long, lean legs. His thighs are sturdy, and muscled, and Eddie cannot help but wonder about the strength they must have. Would Richie even have to struggle to pin Eddie beneath the force of them? How beautiful would they look, spreading eagerly at the slow slide of Eddie’s hands parting them?

Dark hair covers his chest, and freckles dot his skin, and Eddie suddenly is struck by the image of himself kneeling atop Richie, pressing his lips to every single one. 

He has sharp collarbones that seem to be begging for the touch of his teeth, nipping lightly and worrying until he’s left a mark; until it would be impossible for Richie to look at himself and not be reminded of Eddie. 

He’s broad, but soft with it. Eddie feels as though his brain is going into overdrive as he watches Richie move; he wants to wrap his arms around those shoulders and see if Richie can hoist him up to kiss him. He wants to sit in his lap and palm his pale skin until he’s left handprints. He wants to cuddle into the soft, plush curve of his belly. 

Richie bends to shove his clothes carelessly into a laundry basket, and Eddie’s eyes dart down instinctively to take in the swell of his backside in his underwear. He watches for far too long, his stare open and obvious and his thoughts practically flatlining, before he clears his throat and turns away, flushed and squirming at the prickling of his skin.

Holy fuck. Holy _fuck_.

Richie straightens up, and turns to face him, and Eddie battles with the sudden urge to march over and drag him into a heated kiss. He wonders how Richie would react; would he push him away, horrified? Would he think it was a some kind of ill-conceived joke?

Would he open up to Eddie’s touch, lips parting and hands clinging desperately, a needy moan escaping him as Eddie pulls him closer and deepens the kiss?

He shakes his head abruptly, and turns his back on Richie, hoping his flush and the quick panting of his breaths are not too noticeable.

A thousand moments shift into a new focus, and Eddie buries his face in his hands with a groan.

The creeping discomfort he felt as Richie and Stan discussed their kiss. The way he melts against Richie with every hug they share. The searing flush of heat he feels every time they touch. 

He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Yeah, okay, so he knew he couldn’t exactly call himself straight any more. He’s done a lot of thinking recently, and some frenzied googling along with it, and by now he’s realised that he’s been in denial for forty fucking years. 

But he had no idea just how deep in denial he really was.

Now, finally, he gets it. He doesn’t just love Richie. 

He’s _in_ love with Richie.

“Fuck, I’m too drunk for this,” he mutters, and while it is mostly self-chastisement, he’s also suddenly, ridiculously glad that all the whiskey he drank will definitely ward off any giveaway physical reactions Richie might bring about in him.

He feels like Richie deserves a better introduction to his feelings than Eddie accidentally flashing an erection at him. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, then concentrates on quickly stripping himself down to his undershirt and boxers. He climbs into bed, shivering slightly in the cool sheets, and curls onto his side. He tells himself he just needs to warm up, and if the position has the added bonus of making him feel less vulnerable, well, nobody else needs to know.

“Me too, buddy,” Richie mumbles. Eddie looks up and realises with some relief that he’s put his deadlights shirt on. He’s not sure he could cope with having to lie beside Richie while knowing that he’s shirtless. Not with everything he just figured out.

Richie glances at Eddie, making sure he’s settled, before he flicks the light off and sets his glasses down on the nightstand. 

Eddie freezes as Richie gets into bed. It is by no means a small fit, but having him lie there beside him is still startlingly intimate, especially after having slept alone for so long.

Richie squirms around for a moment, getting comfortable, before he curls onto his side, facing Eddie. They blink at each other through the darkness, neither speaking.

Eddie’s not sure what he _could_ say. There’s too much he suddenly needs to tell Richie, too much he should admit about himself; but with the alcohol, and his fatigue, and his sudden astonished revelation hanging over him, his tongue has become a dull lump inside his mouth, unable to form the words he wants to say. 

Richie clears his throat after a moment. 

“Hey, are…” He hesitates, then closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are guarded, and wary. “Be real with me. You’d say if… if the sleeping arrangements bother you, right? I know Stan kinda goaded me into this, but… I can take the floor, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Huh?” Eddie blinks, confused by this sudden reversal of their earlier debate. He wonders, suddenly nervous, if Richie has somehow seen through him; if his new self-awareness is being broadcast directly into Richie’s brain. 

He shifts nervously, aware of his flushed cheeks and glad of the darkness hiding them. “Rich, we already talked this to death, man. I promise, I want to help you get used to sleeping beside people. I’m… I’m not exactly used to it either, but I don’t mind sharing a bed.”

“No, I don’t mean… I’m not asking about the bed. I mean, you’d say if it bothered you to sleep beside _me_ , right?” Richie swallows dryly, and Eddie can see him chewing worriedly on his lower lip. “Because I know you said that, uh, that it wouldn’t, but I also know that… that actually doing something is different to talking about it and I… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Eds. That’s all.”

“Rich,” Eddie says, his brows drawing together in an anxious frown. This is much, much worse than Richie figuring out how he feels. “I – I promise, man, I _promise_ , I – am I not – am I acting wrong?” he asks desperately, and curls up even more tightly beneath the blankets. “Am I treating you like shit and not even realising it? Because I – I don’t mean to, I promise!”

“Eddie, no, god!”

“I’m sorry,” he adds weakly. 

“No, shit, _no_ , you don’t have to apologise for anything. God, fuck, I shouldn’t have said – fuck, I’m sorry,” Richie says hurriedly. His own eyebrows are rising rapidly on his forehead as he scrambles to explain, his eyes wide and worried. “I swear, Eds. You’re not – you’re being awesome, man. You’re treating me just the same as you ever have. You’re not, like, acting like some kind of unconscious bigot, or something!”

“You’re sure? You’d… you’d tell me, if I was being shitty, right? Because I don’t want to do anything wrong without realising it, Richie. You deserve so much better than that.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong! You’re not, Eddie, I swear,” Richie blurts. He runs his hands anxiously through his hair, and Eddie sees the way they shake as he clenches his fingers tightly and pulls worriedly at the strands. “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t – I’m so sorry. I just…”

He trails off, and shakes his head after a second. “Forget I said anything,” he says tiredly. “Sorry, Eds.”

“It’s… it’s fine.” Something about his vehemence settles Eddie’s fears about his own behaviour, but he continues to watch Richie closely as his worry shifts into concern. 

He looks wrecked suddenly, curled up into a tight, anxious ball with his hands tangled in his hair and an expression that suggests he wishes he was anywhere but here. 

Eddie allows himself to uncurl, keeping his eyes fixed on Richie through the darkness. “What brought that on?” he asks softly. “Just… coming out, in general, or…?”

He gets no answer for a long moment, until Richie sighs, and buries his face in his hands with a groan. “Fuck. Yeah, I guess it’s just that you know, now. Telling you all… It’s stupid, but I keep thinking about how it was in Derry, y’know? All those years ago, and… last time we were there, I guess, because it’s not like that place ever changed, right?”

Richie thinks about the newspaper clipping Mike had shown them, of a young gay man brutally killed just before he called them all back. He nods grimly. “No, I guess it hasn’t.”

“I keep thinking about Derry, and… about myself, having to live there. A stupid teenager with what felt like the world’s most horrifying secret. It used to keep me up at night. I would lie awake and desperately wish I’d wake up the next day and be completely different. Just a normal bro, y’know? Like everybody else. I’ve guess I’ve been thinking about that a lot today. My mind keeps… keeps dragging me back to home sweet home.”

“Because of us being here?”

“I mean, it’s not because I’m missing the fucking architecture, Eds! Of course it’s because of you guys! I just…”

There is a long, restless pause, before Richie sighs deeply. “Look, we both grew up in that same shithole, right? We both saw what it did to – to _anybody_ who was different, let alone gay people. The idea of being able to tell anybody what… who I am, it… teenage me would’ve been in hysterics! And honestly, it feels just as scary at forty-one. Give me a break if I’m just the teensiest bit paranoid now people actually know what I’ve been hiding?”

“But you never had to hide it,” Eddie whispers, before he shrugs. “Or not from me, at least.”

But his amendment has Richie blinking uncertainly. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and groans. He wipes his hands over his face, then aims a hesitant look at Eddie, and whispers, “Sometimes… sometimes it felt like you talked about nothing but AIDS. You know that?”

Ice lands in Eddie’s stomach, crystallising and spreading as he stares at Richie, struck dumb for a moment. “Wh – what?”

“Back then. We couldn’t graze our fucking knees without you going off on a rant about AIDS. Or herpes, or pneumonia, or – or anything! Germs. Viruses. Sickness.” 

Richie sighs, and Eddie sees his brow scrunch up tightly through the dizzying pounding of his pulse racing in his ears. “I know you’ve… you’ve changed, since then. I know you’re working hard on yourself, and you’re doing really well, like, with trying all the new food, and eating off our plates, and stuff.”

He levels an uncharacteristically serious look at Eddie that has him pinned helplessly in place. “I’m so fucking proud of you. But like I said, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so I’ll take the floor, if you want. You don’t… you don’t have to be close to me, if it freaks you out.”

Eddie’s stomach feels like it has fallen through the floor. He stares helplessly at Richie as his eyes well with tears, feeling about an inch high. “Richie, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and Richie gives him an alarmed look at the way his voice wobbles.

“Hey, Eds, _no_. I didn’t mean – I’m not trying… You did nothing wrong, okay?”

“Of course I did!” Eddie bursts. His hands clench tightly in the blankets as he shakes through a rush of shame. “You’re my – my best friend, and I, I made you think that I wouldn’t want to be near you just because you’re gay!”

“Hey, no, listen, it’s – it’s fine,” Richie says hurriedly. “You didn’t, Eds, of course you didn’t. You never… You had issues, man. And it was _Derry_ , in the fucking eighties! I saw way worse than anything you ever said written on the fucking bathroom stalls. Hell, _I_ said and thought way worse things about myself, I promise!”

He sighs, and hides his face behind his arm for a moment. When he emerges from behind it, he looks apologetic, and guilt is written in his eyes. “I just thought – maybe you’d worry about – but that was unfair of me, I’m… shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t go assuming the fucking worst of you. Not when you’ve never given me reason to think… I, I’m fucking projecting, I know. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Eddie sucks in a desperate, gasping breath. “No, no you’re right, I -”

“- I’m not right!” Richie says fiercely. “I shouldn’t have opened my big dumb mouth!”

“But I… Back then, I, I said so much -”

“- You said nothing that wasn’t already in the headlines all the fucking time,” Richie says firmly, before his gaze becomes softer, and more uncertain. “You… used to share the hammock with me, though. And… and you fucking cuddled with me, even if we said it was just to read comics. You just… did that, all the time. _That’s_ what matters. You never treated me like I was a potential infection. You never acted like I was… was dirty, or whatever. Even when you were spouting off about fucking bacteria and shit. I should never have suggested… It’s fine. These are all my fucked-up issues, not yours. I promise.” 

“How can it be fine?” Eddie bursts. He clutches the blanket close to him, worrying it between his fingers. “I was so full of shit, all the time! I never fucking stopped!”

“It was your mom,” Richie says helplessly, and shrugs, as though that’s that. “She filled your head full of that garbage. You were just a kid, Eds. You didn’t really stand a chance against her, y’know?”

Silence falls between them for a moment as Eddie just blinks at him, stunned. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes.

Richie hesitates for a moment, apparently debating something, before he adds abruptly, “I’m - I’m clean, by the way. I haven’t… I never really… I’m clean. I just – I want you to know.”

His face is pale and wan, and Eddie cannot help the shaky gasp he lets out. “Fuck, _Richie_! Fuck that! You don’t have to tell me - I don’t fucking care, man!”

Richie levels a hesitant look at him, as though he doesn’t quite dare voice any doubt, and Eddie feels his stomach clench tight. He scrubs viciously at his eyes, and pointedly scoots closer to Richie.

“I _don’t_ ,” he repeats stubbornly. “You could have every disease under the goddamn sun and I wouldn’t give a shit! Are you kidding me?”

“Are _you_ kidding _me_? You don’t care about catching something? With all this super gonorrhoea going around?” Richie shoots back, and his voice is too quiet and tremulous to support his joke.

“I’m telling you, I don’t fucking _care_! I promise, Richie, I would never get freaked out by being close to you,” Eddie snaps. Perhaps even just a few months ago he would have been surprised by the strength of his own convictions in this regard, but right now there is not a shred of doubt within him as he speaks. 

He trusts Richie. He loves him. He has no intention of letting old, ridiculous anxieties get in the way of that.

“Eddie,” Richie murmurs, and falls quiet as Eddie moves even closer.

“I promise,” he repeats, and reaches out to wind his fingers into Richie’s. “I’m glad that you told me you’re gay, and I’ll… I’ll support you however I can, but I don’t give a shit about what you’ve done or who you’ve been with. You could’ve done anything and everything, and it still wouldn’t make you – fucking _dirty_ , or whatever you’re thinking! You’re my – my best friend, asshole! And I love you. And I’m going to sleep right here, and so are you.”

Richie watches him for a long moment, facing down Eddie’s stubborn scowl, before he sighs. A smile spreads across his exhausted face, small, but genuine, and he nods. “Okay.”

“You’ll stay here?” Eddie asks warily, and Richie nods again.

“Sure. If you… if you want me to.”

“Of course I do,” Eddie snaps. He drops their hands in favour of reaching out to flick Richie on the nose, then shoves his hand in his face to see him grumble in protest. “Idiot. It’s _you_. Of course I want you here.”

“Oh.” Richie pushes his hand out of the way and blinks at him, before he laughs lightly. “Then I’m honoured to be allowed in my own bed, I guess.”

Silence falls for a moment as they look at each other, and eventually, Richie gives him a tired smile. 

“I’m not setting an alarm,” he says. “I know Ben wants to see the Hollywood sign, but he can just fucking wait for us to wake up, the dumb tourist. You get hangovers, Spaghetti?”

“Sometimes,” Eddie mumbles. His head is spinning as the anxiety and misery of their conversation drains away, leaving him sapped. “I haven’t been this drunk in a long time. I dunno how good I’ll feel tomorrow.”

“Mm. Me either. Hey, if I…” Richie trails off, and Eddie’s breath catches uncertainly.

“If you what?” he asks, but Richie shakes his head.

“Nothing. Don’t worry your cute little head about it. It’s fine. Hey, sleep well, Eds. Night.” He closes his eyes, and curls up more tightly.

“Night,” Eddie whispers, and rolls onto his other side.

For now, it feels easier to stare into the darkness than to watch Richie sleep.

Tomorrow, they’re going to talk.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Richie has a dream, and the boys have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhhh my god so here we go! Final chapter! Just a quick note to everyone who's made it this far: you've all had me grinning for weeks now, with your comments and love and general joy. Thank you so much for sticking with me! You're all amazing. I hope you like it!
> 
> General warnings for descriptions of canon-typical injuries, abusive behaviour, and death. It's all deadlights related, rather than actually happening, but it does get talked about.

After their conversation, Eddie expects to find falling asleep a struggle, but he’s tired enough that he only lies there for a few minutes before he drops off. 

His sleep is deep, and dreamless, and when a noise startles him awake sometime before dawn, he is disoriented enough to have no idea where he is. 

His head is _aching_.

He blinks uncertainly, feeling lost and confused as he tries to make sense of the weirdly unfamiliar shadows in the darkness around him. He curls up more tightly beneath the blanket as his senses scream at him to pay attention through the dull pounding in his skull. 

Something woke him, and he has no idea what it was. Is somebody is breaking into his apartment? Have they somehow managed to rearrange his furniture without waking him? Why was that their priority?

More to the point, why hasn’t his security system gone off? Did he forget to set it?

He squints into the darkness through barely opened eyes, and pretends to be asleep as he spools his recollection of the previous evening back, trying desperately to figure out what is happening.

And then he hears a noise behind him, and a couple of memories present themselves sheepishly to his protesting brain; he can’t pick out the usual shapes of his bedroom because he’s not even in his own apartment. He’s in L.A., in an unfamiliar bed, and the source of the noise must be Richie.

He rolls over blearily to check on him, wondering what the problem is, and what he sees has him scrambling to sit upright. 

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can tell that Richie is drenched with sweat. He lies frozen in place on his back, with the blankets kicked off him. His limbs are held stiffly, and his head is tilted back at an angle, uncomfortable and oddly unnatural as it presses back into the pillow, baring his throat. His eyes are wet, with tears trickling down his cheeks, and his breathing is hard and laboured, with each breath whistling from his nose in harsh, panicked gusts. 

As Eddie watches, with his brows drawing into a concerned frown, Richie lets out a terrified whimper that tugs at his heart.

Oh. His nightmares. Right.

He reaches out, suddenly pleased he’s around to help, and gives Richie’s stiff, unmoving shoulder a shake. “Richie. Hey. Wake up, man.”

No response.

Eddie frowns, and shakes his shoulder again. And then, when the movement merely rocks Richie’s rigid body in place, his fingers tighten on his shoulder as anxiety floods through him. 

“Richie, wake the fuck up,” he hisses, fear bleeding into his voice as he shakes him hard. “C’mon, don’t make me punch you, ‘cause I… I will, I swear!”

Maybe it’s the force of his push. Maybe it’s the threat, filtering through to Richie on some unconscious level. Eddie doesn’t know what does it, but Richie’s eyes slam open.

He breathes a sigh of relief, and squeezes his shoulder. “So was that one of your nightmares? You scared the shit out of me,” he says, summoning up a small grin despite the headache rattling around in his skull.

But the smile falls off his face when Richie’s only reaction is to look at him, his eyes rolling sidelong to meet Eddie’s gaze. They are open so wide that his irises are like pinpricks surrounded by the whites, tears still catching on his eyelashes as he stares fixedly at Eddie.

Eddie draws himself up, and makes good on his threat; he gives Richie a punch to the shoulder, more for show than impact. 

“All right, asshole, very funny,” he scowls when this garners no response. He props himself up on one arm to lean over Richie, and aims the full force of his glare at him. His scowl withers as Richie’s eyes follow his movement, his nose flaring and his chest heaving as he sucks in a ragged breath.

Save for his breathing, and the movement of his eyes, Richie remains completely still.

He isn’t moving. He isn’t even blinking. His breathing is unsteady and tight, as though merely filling his lungs is almost beyond him right now.

Eddie leans further over him, his own eyes widening and his brows rising as fear shoots through him, and Richie lets out a terrified whine.

And then, suddenly, he gasps, and his hands fly up to scrabble desperately at Eddie’s arms. He kicks to the side, and pushes Eddie over onto the bed, rolling to land atop him. 

He scrambles on top of Eddie and brackets him protectively with his body, panting and crying and staring down at him in horror.

Eddie blinks up at him, shaken and confused beyond belief. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he spits, sprawled awkwardly beneath Richie’s shaking form, but even as he asks, he knows he’s wrong.

Richie looks absolutely terrified.

“Eddie,” he gasps. His gaze rakes frantically over Eddie for a long moment, moving from his face to his chest. Then his eyes squeeze shut wretchedly, and he ducks his head to bury his face in the mattress beside Eddie’s head.

Eddie stares at the ceiling in astonishment. His heart is racing in his chest, and it cracks miserably when he realises Richie is sobbing into the sheets. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, stunned. “It was just a dream, Rich.”

Richie shakes his head in response, and starts to shuffle away from Eddie. “Sorry,” he mutters, and his voice sounds so wrecked that something inside Eddie snaps.

He wraps his arms around Richie’s back and tries to guide him down with a tug. Richie freezes in place, and lifts his head to give him a pitiful look, his eyes red and wet with tears. Eddie pulls at him again, more insistently, and he feels Richie relent. 

He moves where Eddie guides him, letting himself be arranged until he’s lying with his head on Eddie’s chest. 

Eddie’s heart melts at the feeling of Richie shivering against him, his body still trembling as he cries. Moving instinctively, he strokes one hand over Richie’s shuddering back in soothing circles, and cards the fingers of his other hand through his hair. 

“It’s fine,” he shushes softly. “You’re fine. I’m here. We killed It, remember?”

Somehow, his words seem to make things worse; Richie lets out a broken sob. He buries his face in Eddie’s shoulder and fists a hand tightly in Eddie’s shirt, clinging on to him as he cries himself out.

They lie quietly together for a few long minutes, enveloped by the darkness as they hold each other, until Richie’s tears trail off into embarrassed sniffles. 

Eventually, he raises his head to wipe his nose noisily over the back of his hand. Eddie sighs, but his lips quirk into a reluctant smile as Richie snuffles a laugh. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his voice barely there. 

“It’s fine. Just use one of those wipes.”

“Not about that! You know what I mean,” Richie protests. Still, he wriggles awkwardly out of Eddie’s hold and shuffles away, and Eddie hears him fiddling with tissues; he wipes his eyes, and blows his nose noisily, and then lobs it across the room in the vague direction of a trash can. “But I guess I’m sorry for snotting all over you, too.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie says again. He pulls his soaked shirt away from his chest with a grimace, and decides to just strip it off. He wipes himself down with it, then drops it onto the floor. 

When he slides back down in bed and turns onto his side, Richie is watching him, his eyes wide as he chews on his lower lip. Eddie offers a reassuring smile. “I mean it, Richie. It’s fine.”

“Of course it fucking isn’t,” Richie sighs. He fumbles his way further down the bed, and stops when all Eddie can make out through the darkness is the top of his head down to the eyes, peering warily at him from beneath the blanket. “I didn’t want you to have to see that.”

“I said it’s fine, asshole,” Eddie says pointedly. He reaches out to prod Richie in the forehead. “Stop beating yourself up.” 

He hesitates, and takes a moment to just watch what he can see of Richie. His eyes are hooded, and still fearful, and he huddles beneath the blanket like it’s a shield. He looks like he wants very, very badly not to talk about anything that just happened.

Eddie does not want to make him feel any worse, but he has never been good at restraint. 

Especially not when it comes to Richie.

He pulls the blankets over himself, mirroring Richie’s position, and asks, “Are your nightmares always like this?” 

Richie says nothing. He merely blinks at Eddie, his eyes guarded and pleading.

Eddie sighs in return as his stomach drops dejectedly. He grimaces against the pounding in his head and tries to summon up some understanding. “Look, I get it. I know you don’t want to talk about it. Or not with _me_ , anyway, which is - it’s fine, obviously.”

“It’s not because it’s you,” Richie says quickly. He lifts his head to give Eddie a tremulous smile. “You know that, right? It’s not… I just don’t want you to have to -”

“- There is _nothing_ you can tell me that could scare me more than what I just saw,” Eddie says flatly. He thinks of Richie staring frozen up at him, crying and unmoving and terrified, and he sets his jaw in determination. “Nothing, Richie. I swear.”

“You can’t know that,” Richie mumbles, but he’s blinking uncertainly.

“I do,” Eddie promises fiercely. “Honestly. Seeing you like that was fucking awful. What the fuck happened?”

Richie blinks at him, then frowns. “I had a nightmare, Eds. Duh.”

“I know you had a fucking nightmare!” Eddie hisses in return. He flicks his foot out to kick Richie in the leg, glowering as he yelps and kicks back. “I’m not an idiot! I know what nightmares are! I _mean_ , what the fuck was that shit afterwards? You… you weren’t moving, man. It scared the shit outta me.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says again, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t need you to be sorry,” he demands. He reaches out instinctively to catch Richie’s hand with his own, twining their fingers together and squeezing. Richie falls silent, his hand still beneath Eddie’s, and Eddie gives him a determined look. “I just need you to explain. Okay?”

After a long moment, Richie’s fingers tighten around Eddie’s. “Okay,” he mumbles. His other hand wipes tiredly over his face, pushing the blanket aside, and he sighs, long and deep.

They stare at each other through the darkness, both curled on their side in bed, holding hands under the safety of the blankets as Richie gathers himself. Some part of Eddie, new and unfurling slowly, basks in feeling of their fingers twined together, but he tamps it down. 

He can fixate on that later. Right now, Richie needs him.

“Sleep paralysis,” he eventually says, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room. “That’s what that shit was. It’s not that I didn’t want to move. I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t?”

“I mean I physically was not able to,” Richie sighs. His voice shakes, and he grimaces tightly. “It’s like being awake and asleep at the same time. Conscious, but not able to interact with anything. I could see you, and hear you, but I couldn’t move. Sorry, Spaghetti.”

“What did I _just_ say about apologising?”

“Man, I don’t give a tiny dried shit what you said. I know I freaked your bean,” Richie huffs, and flashes a smile as Eddie laughs despite himself. “That’s the last thing I wanted to do. Let me fucking beg forgiveness, okay?”

“All right, Jesus. Whatever. You’re forgiven,” Eddie says impatiently. He scoots closer, grimly fascinated despite his lingering horror. 

His own nightmares have never involved anything like this. Of all the myriad conditions Eddie has fretted about over the years, this has never been one to concern him. He has never felt trapped by his own body. 

Or not in such a literal way, at least. Give or take a bullshit asthma diagnosis.

He arches an eyebrow at Richie and gives in to the urge to interrogate him. He needs to know more, even if the answers are already worrying him. “You just can’t move? At all?”

“You saw the extent of it, man. My eyes are usually all I get. Sometimes not even that.” Richie shrugs tightly. “Sometimes I’m just stuck staring ahead, waiting it out.”

“Waiting – does it always last…?”

“A few seconds, if I’m lucky. Sometimes a few minutes, I guess. It’s not like I can reach for a stopwatch, y’know? I’m not timing this shit.”

Eddie swallows. “Does… does it happen a lot?”

“Most times when I have a nightmare.”

“How often…” Eddie’s heart sinks as Richie stares openly back at him. Without his glasses to hide behind, the dark circles beneath his eyes are even more prominent, and in the dim light his face looks sunken and wan, all harsh lines and hollows. Eddie swallows. “How often do you actually have nightmares?”

“Most nights,” Richie mumbles, and Eddie’s hand tightens desperately in his.

“Jesus, Richie!”

“It’s not so bad,” Richie claims, and suddenly he’s wearing a pastiche of a smile, one that does not reach his eyes. “Usually I manage to sleep through a couple of nights a week.”

“Consecutively?”

The smile drops from his face. “Uh. No, not so much. Just a night, here and there,” Richie shrugs tightly. “It’s enough. I’m still going strong, right?”

“Yeah, you’re a goddamn picture of health. Bev told me that looking like you haven’t slept in years is _in_ this season!” Eddie snorts. 

“I’m fine,” Richie mumbles, but even he sounds like he doesn’t believe it.

Eddie’s eyes narrow, and Richie drops his gaze quickly. He curls up more tightly beneath the blankets, as though Eddie’s questions might bounce off him if he hides well enough. 

Eddie shuffles closer, his hand still tight on Richie’s as he focuses on trying to cut through his evasive bullshit for once in his life. “Are the nightmares always this bad? Did I see a really shitty one?”

Richie says nothing, but after a moment, he offers a miserable shake of his head, and Eddie feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck. You mean this was… this was a _good_ one? Richie!”

“You being here helped,” Richie says weakly. His eyes squeeze shut tightly. “Normally I’d… I’d still be…”

Eddie pictures Richie frozen in place, exhausted and torn from some horrific dream. He imagines him lying paralysed in the darkness, tears leaking from his eyes as he struggles to breathe past what must feel like a vice around his chest. He pictures him bursting out of the paralysis after what feels like hours, only to dissolve into sobs, his hands clinging to the bedclothes and sweat chilling his skin.

He imagines him curled up in the centre of the bed, shaking, and weeping, and alone.

“Fuck, Richie!” He cannot help himself; he pulls himself closer to Richie and wraps his arms around him in a tight hug, burying his face in Richie’s sweat-damp hair. 

Richie gives muffled squeak of surprise against his chest, but he does not move away. After a moment, the tension in his body relaxes, creeping away in the face of their embrace, and he hesitantly slides his arms around Eddie’s middle.

Eddie nuzzles his chin against the top of Richie’s head, and takes a deep breath as a question rattles restlessly around inside his skull.

He shouldn’t ask. Knowing that his nightmares are bad enough to leave Richie in such a state is already awful. And he has already pushed him far enough, asking him to explain his sleep paralysis when he would clearly much rather have ignored it altogether. 

But Eddie _has_ to know what Richie sees in his nightmares.

“Richie,” he mumbles. He breathes in, and the scent of Richie surrounds him, grounding him and giving him the courage to ask. “Tell me what you dream about?”

“Eds,” Richie whimpers against his chest. His voice is small, and shaking. “Please, man. I can’t… I can’t do this to you. Please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you.” Eddie shakes his head, and tightens his hold around him. “I’m just asking.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You can do anything, Richie. I know it. I’ve _seen_ it. And I want to know.”

“Fuck, Eddie, _no_. You don’t want to hear it, seriously. It’s too much.”

“Hey, could you fucking stop with that shit?” Eddie says tightly. He pulls away to lever an indignant glare at Richie. “I was right there beside you when we fought Pennywise! Did you forget that? Stop fucking babying me! I already know _exactly_ how bad it was!”

“No you fucking don’t!” Richie bursts suddenly, loud enough that Eddie is sure somebody else must hear, even rooms away. Shocked silence settles around them again, and Richie’s face screws up miserably. 

He tries to shuffle away, but Eddie stubbornly locks his arms around him, and Richie only fights it for a second before he whimpers and buries his face against Eddie’s chest again. “You _don’t_ know,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Because you lived through it, Eds. You don’t know how bad it could have been.”

Eddie swallows. He shifts his hands to run them through Richie’s hair, petting and comforting with the lightest touch his shaking fingers can manage. “What do you mean, I lived through it?” he asks, his nose wrinkling in confusion. “Of course I did. I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“Eddie, stop,” Richie pleads, but Eddie’s eyes widen as he realises what Richie is trying not to say.

_You being here helped. Normally I’d… I’d still be…_

“You dream about me dying, don’t you?” he breathes, a sick stillness washing over him as his heart speeds in his chest. “That’s what it is. That’s why you won’t tell me. You dream – you dream It killed me?”

His heart stutters and his chest tightens as Richie nods weakly. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and lets it out in a long, steady exhale, working to loosen his chest before panic can take hold of him.

Then he forces himself to ask, “How?”

“Eddie, fuck, _no_!”

“Tell me,” Eddie encourages. He tugs lightly on Richie’s hair, and hears him whine softly. “C’mon. Get it out. Tell me how I die. Maybe it won’t seem as bad, if -”

“- Maybe it won’t seem as fucking bad?” Richie bursts. He pulls away to stare at Eddie, his eyes suddenly blazing with fury. “Maybe watching you die over and over and _over_ again won’t feel like my heart is being ripped out night after night?”

Eddie’s own heart is pounding. “Maybe not bottling everything up will make it easier to deal with?” he shoots back. His hand tightens instinctively on Richie’s hair as he tries to duck away, and he sets his jaw as Richie hisses. 

The noise thrills him, but he does his best to ignore the burst of heat that sparks low in his stomach. This is definitely not the time to examine _that_.

He lets go of Richie’s hair, and levels a pleading look at him. “C’mon, man. It’s got to be worth a try, right? Maybe not hiding it away will mean it doesn’t have as much of an effect on you?”

“Not fucking possible,” Richie snaps, but his voice is trembling as he watches Eddie. He sighs after a moment, shaky and resigned, and his eyes close. “I don’t… It’s not always the same…”

Eddie watches closely. His stomach is churning, anxiety over Richie’s nightly tortures and despair at the thought of his own death twining together, but he pushes it down. Richie needs him to be brave right now. “Not just… You see, uh, more than one… scenario, you mean?”

Richie’s breath catches miserably. He nods in Eddie’s hold, and drags his hands anxiously through his hair.

Eddie breathes. His keeps his voice even as he says, “Tell me about them.”

“Eddie, I… I _can’t_ , man. I can’t do that to you. Please, don’t… don’t make me do this. Not to you.”

Eddie huffs a frustrated sigh, then softens his eyes. He meets Richie’s gaze, and smiles softly. “You remember what I said, when you told me about Stan’s nightmares?”

“Uh…?”

“I said it wasn’t a competition, and I wasn’t joking. We’ve all had nightmares, and they’ve all been super shitty. I thought I got it, y’know? I thought I knew what you meant. But now I…” He pauses, and shrugs tightly. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Huh? For what?”

“For not seeing just how awful your dreams are,” Eddie mumbles. 

“How could you?” Richie asks shakily. “I’ve done my best to make sure you had no clue, man. You don’t owe me any apologies. I… I’m sorry, Eds. It’s just… it feels like too much to actually…”

“I can cope. You can cope,” Eddie urges. “You probably can’t do any worse than you’re doing now, right?”

“I… guess?”

“Just… give me a clue, man. Please? From what I’ve already seen, I think I’ve underestimated just how bad you three have got it, because whenever _I_ have nightmares, they’re about things that have already happened.” 

Eddie thinks back over his own dreams with a frown. He hasn’t had one in weeks, now. Maybe even months. “The leper, chasing me. Or that fucking dog It tricked us with. Or I see It chasing us around that cave, and throwing us all over the place.”

He swallows, and arches an eyebrow at Richie, pleading, and hoping desperately that he’s wrong at the same time. “But that’s not what you see, is it? You don’t see things that happened. You see… things that could have happened?”

“Fuck,” Richie whispers, and Eddie watches a tear squeeze through his eyes as they clench closed. “Don’t – don’t say that, Eds. You couldn’t – I wouldn’t have _let_ you…” 

He trails off, his lips pressed tightly together, before he sucks in a shaky breath. He shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is quieter and more pitiful than Eddie has ever heard. 

“Except I, I did, I guess? I – I don’t know if I see things that could have happened, or things that _did_ happen, somewhere else. You know what I mean? Like, in a different… timeline, or universe, or – fuck, I’m not – I’m not up to date on fucking multiverse theories!”

“Does it matter?” Eddie shoots back. His scrambles for patience when Richie’s eyes open to give him a dull look, his incredulity clear in them. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me if it could have happened to us, or if it _did_ happen to us somewhere else. I don’t give a shit, Rich. What I care about is what seeing all of this is doing to _you_. That’s all.”

“You don’t care that you died, you just care that I’m sad?” Richie blurts, and he bursts into hysterical laughter, burying his face in the sheets as he giggles. “You’re something else, Eddie!”

“I’m alive,” Eddie says firmly. He squeezes Richie’s hand, and smiles when his laughter tails off. “It’s pretty fucking shitty if I’m the only one of… of _me_ that survived, but at least I’m here, right? Even if the rest of me… aren’t? …Fuck, our lives are weird,” he groans, knuckling at tired eyes as Richie chuckles softly. 

“Always have been,” agrees Richie softly. He watches Eddie closely for a moment, squinting in the dim light, then says, “You should sleep, man. You look rough. It’s super late.”

Eddie drops his hand to glower at him. The pounding in his head redoubles, but he pushes past it and prods Richie stubbornly in the chest. “Fuck you. I don’t give a shit how late it is. I want to know how I die.”

“You really don’t.”

“All right, no, I don’t. But I do want to help you,” Eddie argues. He shuffles even closer, and gives Richie a pleading look, which has him groaning. “C’mon, man. You’re – you’re my best friend. Let me help?”

“Seriously, those eyes should be illegal,” Richie mutters. He runs his hand over his face, and when he drops it, his expression is resigned. 

He shuffles closer, and his hand remains tight on Eddie’s. “Tell me to stop talking, and I will,” he says, before offering a humourless smile. “Beep beep, right?”

“I won’t,” Eddie says softly. His eyes are fixed on Richie as his stomach churns. “I want you to tell me everything.”

Richie watches him for a second, before he sighs. “First of all, I… I don’t just see you, okay? It’s not just a Spaghetti smorgasbord. Sometimes it’s the others. Like Bev’s shrivelled nutsack of an ex following her to Derry, and… and getting hold of her. Or stopping her from leaving home in the first place.” 

Richie shoots him a stricken look. “I… I see her sprawled in their bed, or crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, or I watch him fucking throw her against a wall, and she… she looks so broken, Eds. So helpless. Who would _do_ that to her?”

“She’s fine,” Eddie reminds him. “And he’s never going to get hold of her again. I promise. She’s definitely not helpless, and she’s safe. She’s, like, two rooms away from us! She’s probably on top of Ben right now.”

“And aren’t we all jealous as hell,” Richie says, with a brief quirk of his lips that lasts no longer than a moment before he chews them worriedly. “Or, like, sometimes it’s Mike, right?”

“Bowers?” Eddie guesses, and Richie nods shakily.

“I see myself getting there too late to stop him, and Mike is… His _throat_ … It’s a mess, and he’s just gasping for air and staring up at me, and I just…. watch him bleed out. Or he’s in hospital, and we aren’t fucking there with him, and some nurse… It gets him. We’re not with him, and It fucking gets him while our backs are turned. Why would we leave him alone? Why would we fucking abandon him when he already lost us once?”

“We didn’t. We wouldn’t.”

“But -”

“- They’re just nightmares. They’re not real,” Eddie reminds him as gently as he can. He’s not naturally a patient man, but he’s grasping for every reserve he has, for Richie. “They might feel like it, but they’re not. You _did_ get there in time. Mike was with us the whole time, thanks to you.”

Richie’s eyes squeeze shut. “And sometimes I see Stanley,” he admits in a rush, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. He seems not to have heard Eddie speak at all. “Like I was there, Eds. Like I was right there with him, while he…. And I yell and try to stop him, and I just can’t get through to him. I’m screaming and screaming and he just… keeps going, and then right before it’s over he – he _sees_ me, and he looks so fucking lost -”

“- Richie!” Eddie snaps. He drops their hands, and Richie lets out a wounded whimper, but Eddie does not stop. He’s exhausted, and his head is aching, and it is easier to let instinct take over than to fight it.

He pushes Richie onto his back with a shove to his shoulder, and swings a leg across him to straddle his hips, ignoring the way his stomach lurches excitedly at the view of Richie lain out beneath him. It’s a lot. His legs are spread and his thighs clench around Richie’s hips, and he cannot help the way his breath catches as Richie’s hands automatically land on his waist, trembling softly.

Eddie mentally chastises himself, and forces himself to focus. He leans forward and rests his hands on Richie’s shoulders, and glares down at him. “Listen to me, okay? Stan’s fine. He’s on your couch right now, wearing a stupid t-shirt _you_ made for him _because he survived_. He’s alive! Hell, we can go check on him, if you want to see for yourself!”

Eddie expects more rambling, or protests. He expects Richie to throw him off, or to toss out an inappropriate line about Eddie being on top.

He doesn’t do any of those things. 

Richie merely stares up at Eddie, his expression crumpling into anguished fear as Eddie blinks in confusion. “What? What is it?”

Richie gasps, lying frozen beneath him. His eyes look past Eddie, staring frantically into the darkness of the room behind him, and Eddie is suddenly struck by a memory.

He remembers himself kneeling atop Richie in Its lair, triumphantly declaring that he killed It while Richie stared up at him, dumbstruck and half-present at most, with his hands feebly reaching for him. And then he remembers the way Stan barrelled out of nowhere to push him over, and how it felt as though Stan must have put his entire strength behind his desperate shove, because his side was still black and blue from the impact days later.

And then a massive claw struck the ground exactly where Eddie had been kneeling, and a furious shriek echoed around the cave, as though something had been snatched from Its grasp.

If Stanley hadn’t been there…

“I die like this, don’t I?” he whispers, ice spreading through him with the thought. He kneels up atop Richie, his hands automatically pressing over his own stomach and chest as they tingle, some intangible itch leaving him shivering. “In your dreams, I die – I die right then, right after I saved you? You’ve seen it happen, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Richie whimpers, and his voice is barely there. Tears are leaking from his eyes again, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stares fixedly at Eddie, and Eddie wonders just what he is seeing. 

“Because Stan isn’t…”

“No.”

“Fuck,” breathes Eddie. His hands clench instinctively at his own bare chest and stomach, then he rolls off Richie with a jolt. “I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean to – I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Richie chokes out. 

“It fucking isn’t!” Eddie growls, and holds his hand out to him again.

Richie takes it after a second, and rolls back onto his side, curled into a tight ball. He can’t seem to meet Eddie’s eyes. “No matter who I start dreaming about, it… it always ends with you, Eds. You’re always there. They’re the starter, but you’re the goddamn main course.”

“How else do I go?” asks Eddie, as a sick curiosity runs through him. 

Richie shakes his head miserably, but he speaks after a minute, by now apparently resigned to doing as Eddie wants. “So… so many ways. Sometimes it’s when you’re a kid, back in the Niebolt house, that first time. It fucking eats you, in front of me, and all I can do is watch. You were so fucking _small_ , Eddie. All I want to do is pick you up and run, to get you away from It, but I can’t even move.”

He takes a shuddering breath, and his voice wavers as he goes on. “Or… or I see your mom, sometimes. Deciding you’d be safest if you just… couldn’t ever get hurt again.”

Eddie nods shakily. He shouldn’t be surprised at his mom turning up in Richie’s dreams, but a cold wave of fear sweeps over him anyway. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing through the panic, and when he opens them, Richie is watching him warily.

Eddie tightens their fingers together. “Keep going.”

Richie gazes at him for a moment, assessing, before he obediently sucks in a breath. “Sometimes it’s pills. An accident, I… I think. It’s – it’s not always your mom, either. Sometimes it’s her, or… I, I see a woman, I guess it must be Myra? Or sometimes,” he swallows hard, and seems to have to force the words out. “Sometimes it’s you, Eddie, just… adding one too many pills to your _fucking_ pill caddy. Your liver can only take so much, y’know? Before it checks the fuck out.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them to stare wretchedly at Eddie. “It rips off your arm, sometimes,” he whispers. “Like it’s nothing. Like it’s just so easy. And sometimes I carry you out of there, but sometimes I – they make me leave you, with your arm gone or, or a hole in your chest, they drag me away from you and we just _leave_ you there, all alone! To rot away in the dark like you don’t even fucking matter, Eddie!”

He gasps, the air rattling in his lungs as he cries miserably. “How could we do that to you? Why - why would they make me?”

Eddie does not answer him for a moment. He cannot. 

His mind is freewheeling, images flying through his brain and then being replaced by new ones, each worse than the last. He flexes his hands, suddenly certain, for a ridiculous moment, that one will not respond; that one will not even be there. 

He can feel a disembodied hollowness threatening to fill his chest. He curses shakily, and forces himself to concentrate on taking control of his panicked breathing, taking strength from the way Richie’s fingers tighten in his own.

It takes a long moment, but eventually, he can take a breath without wheezing; without feeling like his chest has been run through.

He wipes a shaking hand over his face, and scoots closer to Richie. He is crying beside him, his face buried in the blanket as he hiccups desperate sobs, and Eddie’s heart cracks in half at the sight of him.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and does not give Richie a chance to refuse. He pulls him closer, pleased when he moves without protest, and settles Richie snugly against his chest again. If he has any protests about it, they are buried beneath his tears. 

Eddie feels Richie’s panicked breaths against his bare skin; he feels the hot press of his tears as he weeps helplessly. He wraps his arms around Richie’s back, and holds him tightly as he reaches for an answer. “They love you.”

Richie sniffles against his chest. “What?”

“They… they’d make you leave me because they love you. If they thought that leaving me behind was the only way for the rest of you to get out safely.”

“Bullshit! Losers stick together, Eddie! Have you forgotten that?”

“And I’d want them to do it, too. I’d want them to get you out,” he adds fiercely. Richie lifts his head to give him a wounded look, and Eddie stares back at him, undeterred.

He has never meant something more in his life.

“If I was already gone, and if it was a choice between getting my body out, or the rest of you managing to get out at all… It’s not a choice at all, Rich. I’m with them.”

“Eddie!”

“They love you,” he snaps again. He breathes for a second as Richie blinks at him, and softens his voice. His heart jackrabbits in his chest. “ _I_ love you. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck down there with me. Not if I was already gone. I’d want you to leave me behind. I… I would want you to keep on living without me.”

“Fuck that!” Richie spits. His face screws up angrily, and he recoils as though Eddie has physically lashed out at him. “What the fuck do you mean, keep on living? You think I’d be able to live without you?”

“Richie -”

“- Fuck that,” he snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I couldn’t – without you – I’d have nothing to live _for_!”

Silence settles between them for a long moment, heated and oppressive, as they stare at each other. Eddie blinks uncertainly at him, his stomach doing backflips as his heart skips, and Richie’s eyes widen as though he has just realised what he said.

He hangs his head after a second, and shakes it miserably. “I didn’t mean… Look, just forget I said anything, okay?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Eddie whispers, and Richie’s eyes somehow widen even more.

He laughs, and there is a sharp, nervous edge to it. “God, listen to us. Wasted, overdramatic bitches, am I right?” 

He wriggles his way out of Eddie’s grasp to sit up, and clasps his hands to his chest. “I’d die without you! No, I’d die without _you_!” he trills, and shakes his head mockingly. “We’re too fucking drunk for this. You should get some more sleep, Eds,” he says, swinging his legs out of bed.

Eddie frowns in confusion. He cannot help but feel that a moment just slipped effortlessly through his clumsy fingers. “What?”

“It’s late. Or early. It’s both,” Richie chuckles. Exhaustion lies heavily on his words as he turns back to look down at Eddie with a half-hearted smile. “Get some rest.”

“What about you?”

Richie shakes his head. “I can never get back to sleep after I have a nightmare,” he says, his voice carefully light. “I’m done for the night.”

“What?” Eddie gapes up at him, fumbling to understand, then scrambles to sit up. “Wait – you have nightmares most nights, and then you get up at ass o’clock in the morning and just… don’t sleep any more? You’re scraping by on a couple of hours of sleep most nights a week? What the hell, man?”

“I agree,” Richie says sagely. “What, as you say, the hell? But that’s that. I guess my beauty secret is out, right? Make-up artists hate me,” he snorts.

He moves to stand up, but Eddie shoots a hand out to wrap around his wrist. Richie freezes in place, his eyes darting to Eddie’s hand with a frantic look, but he remains steadfast. “No, hey, stop. You can’t go on like this, Rich.”

He shrugs tightly. “I mean, honestly, I _know_ , Eds. But what am I gonna do? At least if I’m up I’m being productive. I can write, or something. Or get a head start on cleaning up the mess. You’re gonna have an aneurysm when you sober up and see the state we left the living room in.”

“Shut the fuck up for a second,” Eddie says tightly. “You can’t just not sleep.”

“I can,” Richie argues tiredly. “I mean, I do. Pretty damn often.”

“All right, smartass, then you _shouldn’t_. It’s not good for you. You’re gonna burn out!”

“I like that you think that hasn’t already happened,” Richie chuckles, but it rings hollow. He sighs, and tugs lightly at his wrist; Eddie tightens his hold stubbornly. “C’mon, Eds. The sooner I get out of your hair, the sooner you can sleep this off.”

“Sleep with me,” Eddie bursts, and Richie gapes at him.

“Uh?”

“Not like – not like _that_. Beside me,” Eddie huffs. He can feel a tell-tale flush staining his cheeks as Richie stares. He tugs insistently on Richie’s wrist. “Come here?”

Richie remains frozen in place, and Eddie rolls his eyes. “Please?” he adds, and Richie’s mouth shuts with a click.

“Jeez, Eddie, I don’t know,” he mutters beneath his breath as he slowly inches back into bed. “People will talk, y’know? It’ll be a scandal. We’ll be ruined. And you aren’t even wearing a shirt! What if Father finds out?”

“What are you even saying?” Eddie grumbles. He keeps his fingers wrapped tightly around Richie’s arm as he shuffles down in bed, gently guiding Richie until he lies down. “Do you ever actually listen to yourself?”

“Only when forced,” Richie chuckles weakly. He looks hesitantly to Eddie, and waving his hand through the air and watching as Eddie’s follows insistently. “Okay, well, y’know… Here I am. What now?”

“Try to sleep,” Eddie encourages hopefully. 

Richie groans and clutches his face. “Eddie,” he whines. “It won’t work. I swear. I’ve tried so many times, man. It’ll just be me lying beside you while you sleep.” 

He hesitates, then rolls onto his side to offer a half-smile. “I don’t… feel safe. And I know that’s fucking stupid. I know we killed the shit outta It, and It isn’t coming back. But there’s a difference between knowing that in the light of day, and making myself believe it in the middle of the night. It doesn’t work, man. I’m always too rattled to drop off again after a nightmare.”

“But this time is different,” Eddie insists. 

“All right, I’ll bite.” Richie laughs softly. He looks amused, despite the exhaustion in his face. “What’s different?”

Eddie takes a deep breath, and wills the words to leave his lips. “This time, I’m here to keep you safe.”

He expects Richie to laugh, or to snort, or otherwise just pull away. He does not expect the way Richie’s face melts into tender smile, fondness shining through without a trace of mockery.

“Like I said, man,” he murmurs. “You’re something else.”

“I mean it,” Eddie insists. An idea strikes, and brings with it a jolt to his stomach that circles restlessly as he mulls it over. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s just easier to admit what he wants in cover of darkness. Whatever is pushing on, Eddie thinks there’s a chance it could work, even if he’s sure Richie will make fun of him for it.

He has to try. A little ridicule is worth it, if there’s even a tiny chance that he can make Richie feel better.

He lets his mouth purse into a pleading pout that has Richie groaning. He’s already flushing, his entire body prickling with heat as he speaks, but he forces himself to keep going. “What if I held you?”

Richie blinks in astonishment. His mouth works silently for a few moments, and when he tries to speak, his voice cracks. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, it’d remind you I’m safe, right?” Eddie suggests. He smiles hopefully, sliding even closer. “If you could feel me, right beside you, it might, like, filter into your brain. And if I’m here with you, I can keep _you_ safe. I already saved you once, remember?”

Richie’s lips downturn as he frowns, and Eddie scowls, and speaks before he can protest further. “Oh c’mon, man! What have you got to lose? Just give it, like, fifteen minutes, okay? Please! What’s the worst that can happen? You get hugged for a while, and _then_ you get up. Would that really be so fucking bad?”

“You want to hug me until I fall asleep? You – shirtless Eddie, you want to cuddle me off to the land of nod?” Richie asks, his voice high-pitched and wavering in disbelief, and Eddie gives him a little shove.

“I want you to shut your mouth and _try_ to sleep. Is the lack of shirt a dealbreaker?” Eddie asks impatiently, but he’s quite glad of the darkness hiding the heat to his cheeks. “You can give me a loaner if you like, but why is that what you’re focusing on?”

“Well, _jeez_ , you lie here in my position with you looking like _that_ and just try not to focus on it, Eds!” Richie is babbling, his hands waving through the air as he gapes at Eddie. “You’re quite the fucking sight, my man!”

“Look, shut up,” Eddie sighs. “You’ve seen me shirtless a million times.”

“I mean, _yeah_ , but that was when – when you were a teeny little spaghettini! Now you’re, like, fresh outta the kitchen, hand-crafted -”

“- Why don’t I spoon you?” Eddie asks, and Richie stops talking with a choked noise.

“Well, jeez, Eddie,” he eventually blinks in astonishment. “I mean, yeah, why _don’t_ you spoon me?”

“Shut the fuck up and let me do this,” Eddie groans irritably. He throws subtlety to the wind and resorts to shoving Richie again, pushing and prodding and not letting up until he rolls over with a whine. He shuffles after him, and pushes his arm beneath Richie, wriggling until he shifts enough to let Eddie spoon him.

Richie freezes as Eddie draws him against his chest with both arms wrapped comfortably around him, the muscles of his back tense against his skin as Eddie squirms until he’s settled. 

Eddie wonders, through the ache in his skull, if Richie can feel the frantic thudding of his heart where their bodies are pressed together.

“Is this okay?” he asks, resting his chin against Richie’s shoulder. He lies taut beneath Eddie’s hands, so he nuzzles his chin against him without thinking, smiling in satisfaction when the tension in his muscles begins to relax incrementally.

“It’s something,” Richie mumbles. Eddie frowns, and paws at Richie’s chest; he grins when Richie yelps with the pinch his nipple receives. “Fuck, Eddie! You’re fucking rabid, dude! Jeez!”

“Is this too much?” Eddie says again, scrambling to keep hold of his patience amid his frantic, circling thoughts. He can’t believe Richie is letting him do this. 

He takes a deep breath, and tries to settle his mind. He reminds himself of all of the less selfish reasons he’s holding Richie – to comfort him, to protect him, to try and offer him a chance to rest – and reaches for the most reassuring tone he can summon up. “We don’t _have_ to do this. But if it might help, isn’t it worth a try?”

Richie remains silent for a long moment, an uncertain, trembling line of tension in Eddie’s arms, before he clears his throat. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Eddie nods. His head brushes against Richie’s, and he feels him shiver. “Just try it for that long. Please?”

Richie sighs, and nods. “Fine. Okay. Jesus. You wore me down. Where the hell do you get off, man? You’re a guest in my home, and you’re bossing me about like this?”

Eddie chuckles softly to himself, and nudges at his shoulder. “Like I don’t boss you about everywhere else too?”

“Good point,” Richie sighs. “I should’ve seen this coming. Well – not – not _this_ , but -”

“- Shut up,” Eddie grins. He squeezes him softly. “Just try to get some sleep.”

Richie huffs in his arms, but remains silent. It is very satisfying.

He doesn’t drop off immediately, which Eddie concedes would be wishful thinking. 

He shifts restlessly in the circle of his arms for a while, squirming until he seems to decide he’s comfortable. Eddie endures his shuffling about with as much patience as he has left, and merely tightens his arms around him when he seems to have settled.

He waits in the darkness, his own eyelids drooping, and he distracts himself from fixating on the way Richie fits in his arms like he belongs there by slowly counting the passing seconds in his head.

When he reaches a count of six hundred, he murmurs, “Richie?” as quietly as he can.

His only answer is a soft snore.

Smiling to himself, and with his forehead resting at the back of Richie’s neck, Eddie lets himself doze off.

***

When Eddie surfaces again, the sun is up. He blinks dopily into the soft light of the room, squinting against the gentle rays that peep through a gap in the curtains, and takes stock of his situation.

The pounding in his head seems to have calmed down a little, though it’s certainly still present. His stomach feels fine, and he suspects the headache will be easily sorted by a couple of Advil. That’s all manageable.

He can hear footsteps in the hallway, bare feet padding on floorboards, and low voices coming from further down the hall. He hears Bev laugh, bright and warm, and somebody else groans. His friends are up and about, and it seems as though they haven’t all been lucky enough to escape a hangover. That has the potential to be amusing.

Finally, he turns his attention to the person lying beside him, a fond smile spreading helplessly across his face as he looks down at Richie’s tangled curls. 

He is sound asleep, despite his protests that it wouldn’t happen. 

At some point in the night, they have both shifted; Eddie now lies on his back, with Richie sprawled over him on his front. His head is nestled on Eddie’s bare chest, with his hair tickling his skin softly with each slow breath, and he has an arm and a leg slung across his body.

It has been so long since Eddie slept beside anybody. He had never enjoyed sharing a bed with Myra, as it had always seemed to offer more in the way of fighting over the covers, and snoring, and accidental elbows to the face, than any positive aspects. 

So with Richie curled up on top of him, he should feel crowded. He should be pushing him off, or lying tense and uncomfortable beneath him.

Instead, he’s fighting the urge to duck his head down and drop a kiss onto his hair. He feels rested. He feels like he could lie like this forever. 

He remembers waking this way on countless mornings in Richie’s bed when they were kids, tangled together and happier than he could ever really describe.

Right now, waking once again with Richie draped across him, Eddie feels like he has come home. 

He also kind of needs to pee, but that is probably not Richie-specific.

He smiles quietly to himself, and does not resist the urge to brush his fingertips delicately through his hair. His heart is singing, and he feels light enough that he could fly away. He does not feel like denying himself the joy of just being close to Richie after so long apart.

He’s aware of a familiar feeling tugging at him again as he gazes down at Richie; whispering enticingly at the back of his mind, telling him to face down the dizzying drop ahead of him, and to leap into it, no matter what the landing might bring.

What had Stan called it? His brow creases as he thinks back through the haze of the night before. Apple something?

Whatever. His other comments come back to him as clear as the beam of sunlight poking through the curtains.

_Jump if you want, Eddie. You’ll land safely. I promise._

He shifts beneath Richie as Stan’s words float across his mind, and Richie stirs. Eddie shushes him with a hand scratching his scalp and he settles with a soft noise. Eddie smiles breathlessly at the ceiling. He almost never wants to leave this moment. 

He feels as though there is, for once, no uncertainty or anxiety circling his mind. There is only Richie, lying safely atop him, and the simple desire to keep him that way. 

Perhaps the realisation should come as a shock, but Eddie merely lets out a soft sigh as the certainty of it settles immovably in his mind; he _wants_ to jump. He wants to feel the dizzying rush of flinging himself into the unknown. He wants to be as brave as his friends think he is.

He _really_ wants to believe that Richie will catch him before he hits the ground.

Stan had seemed so sure of his response, and really, if he lets himself look back on the past few months, Richie has not been subtle. For a man who has been in the closet until last night, and who has done his level best to hide the extent of his trauma, Richie has nevertheless hardly been shy about showing Eddie his heart.

Eddie is pretty sure that Richie is in love with him.

Even just thinking it fills him with glee. Happiness bubbles in his stomach, fizzing and light, until it threatens to fill him to bursting.

But despite everything, he’s still not _certain_ of it, and he probably won’t be unless Richie tells him for himself. 

Admitting how he feels still feels like a gamble. Eddie is not absolutely, completely sure of how Richie will react when he tells him what he has realised about himself.

It definitely feels like a risk.

But if there is one thing Eddie knows, it’s risks.

They’re going to talk about it. He is determined to tell Richie how he feels. 

Now he’s realised what he wants, the idea of going another moment without confessing to Richie is a kind of torture. He lies beneath him, practically vibrating with the need to talk to him.

But he looks so peaceful as he rests, as though the act of sleeping is doing him good, and Eddie is loath to disturb him.

He has waited forty years for Richie. He can probably stand to wait just a little while longer.

Eddie smiles to himself, and closes his eyes, and he just… drifts.

He purposefully does not examine his feelings as he lies there quietly. He merely lets Richie sleep and entertains himself by toying with his unruly hair, enjoying the moment of peace without letting himself wonder what is to come. He feels giddy; he also feels settled.

He knows what he wants to do, but he does not let himself lie there panicking about it. He has done much too much of that over the past four decades. 

Perhaps, for once, he can just… exist.

He falls into a doze after a while; not quite awake, but drifting on the edge of sleep. Time passes without Eddie really being aware of it, but eventually, their peace is disturbed by a series of noises from the hallway: a dull thud, followed by a pained curse, then Mike plaintively grumbling, “Who left their damn bag in the hall?”

Eddie misses whatever sheepish answer is forthcoming from their friends as he wakes, because Richie stirs sleepily against his chest, and his attention turns entirely to him. “W’s happening?” he mumbles into Eddie’s chest, and he shivers as his lips brush teasingly against his skin.

“Mike stubbed his toe, or something,” Eddie whispers. He strokes more firmly over his hair, ruffling the curls. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep, if you want.”

“Mm.” Richie yawns, his face scrunching up ridiculously, and shakes his head. Eddie remembers that he has never been one for mornings. “Nah. ’M up.”

He makes no actual effort to move, and Eddie huffs a laugh. He tangles his fingers in Richie’s hair and tugs lightly. “Yeah? Sure seems like it.”

“It’s too early for you to be mean t’me,” Richie mumbles.

“Yeah? Do you even know what time it is?”

“Doesn’t matter. ‘S always too early for that.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Eddie chuckles. He tugs teasingly at Richie’s hair, and laughs as he whines at the back of his throat, but the sight of him has Eddie’s heart thudding eagerly. He can’t believe how fucking cute he’s being right now. 

His stomach swirls hopefully with the idea that this could be something he gets to see every day, if he can just be brave.

He clears his throat, and gives his hair another light tug, and asks, “So what’re you gonna do about it, hotshot?”

Richie’s arm tightens around Eddie’s waist as he nuzzles comfortably into his chest, his eyes still stubbornly closed. “Stoppit. Stop bullying me. Lemme at least eat breakfast first.”

“Doughnuts?”

“If y’want. Or I bought some kinda bran flake things for you. You like those, right? They’re healthy enough for you?” he says, sleep still lying thick on his words. 

Eddie keeps stroking his hair, and wonders if he’ll drop back off. Despite his desire to spill his heart to Richie, he is not at all disinclined to avoid this. He doesn’t think he’ll be happy until he knows for a fact that he has had a few hundred uninterrupted hours of sleep. “No, they’re gross. They’re practically cardboard. I hate bran flakes.”

“Figures. I still bought ‘em for you, though, so…”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Y’r welcome. There’s Cheerios instead, if y’want.”

“I want a doughnut, if there’s any left.”

“I’ll go get more for you if there isn’t,” Richie mumbles, like it’s nothing. Like Eddie’s heart isn’t trembling ridiculously in his chest.

Richie stirs again, and his eyes flutter. His lashes tickle Eddie’s chest, teasing a soft giggle from him. Richie frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles. He laughs harder when Richie opens one eye to give him a bleary but suspicious glare, squinting against the light. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Mm. Is it?”

“Just about,” Eddie says, with a glance at the clock. He clears his throat, and asks innocently, “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty well. Better than usual. Much better, actually,” Richie admits after a moment. Surprise lies heavily in his voice.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks hopefully. “No more nightmares?”

“None at all. Shit, not – not a one, man. I… I slept _great_.”

Eddie beams to himself, and gives Richie’s hair a triumphant tug. “Told you so!”

“Nobody likes a smug bastard, Spaghetti,” mutters Richie. “No matter how much of a fucking genius they are.”

“Admit it,” Eddie goads him. He flicks his ear repeatedly, and grins as Richie curls up more tightly, whining against his chest. “I was right. Tell me. Let me hear you say it.”

“Augh. I hate you,” Richie mutters.

“If you hate me, why are you snuggling with me?” Eddie asks, and it’s the wrong thing to say, he _knows_ , because Richie’s eyes slam open, and he tenses up immediately.

“Shit! Sorry!” He pulls away from Eddie in a rush of flailing limbs, scrambling backwards until he’s deposited himself back onto the bed in a heap. 

Eddie stares as his stomach drops, sinking with the sheer panic rolling off Richie in waves. He can suddenly see exactly how the next few minutes will go. He knows precisely what Richie is going to do. 

He’ll push himself away from Eddie. He’ll curl up against the headboard, his knees against his chest and his arms held tight around himself, and he’ll close off.

He’ll play it all off as a sleazy joke, and climb out of bed, and he’ll never let himself be close to Eddie again.

Eddie’s heart lurches. He feels the loss of Richie’s presence everywhere they had touched.

In a flash, he reaches out and wraps his hand around Richie’s wrist, just as he had the night before. Richie freezes in place, and gives him an uncertain look. 

“I didn’t say stop,” Eddie murmurs, and Richie’s expression drops into astonishment.

“What?”

“C’mere,” Eddie says, and pulls insistently at his wrist.

It shouldn’t work. He still can’t really believe it worked last night. Richie has no reason to go along with his demands.

But he remains still for barely more than a few seconds, staring in myopic confusion at Eddie, before he slowly inches his way closer. He allows Eddie to pull him back onto his chest, his body more taut with tension than it had been, but still draped across him. 

Eddie sighs in something close to relief when Richie hesitantly rests his head against his chest. He drops his wrist, and moves his hand back to his hair, carding his fingers through it with what he hopes is a soothing stroke. 

“What… What are we doing?” Richie asks, after a confused moment of silence. He lies stiff and unmoving atop Eddie, his body curled up into a ball and his hands tucked against his belly. 

Eddie’s breath catches uncertainly, before he sets his jaw. That feels like such a big question, and he’s not sure of the answer when so much of it will depend on Richie. 

He chooses to ease his way into it, and ignores his question in favour of one of his own. “Why did you get up?”

“What d’you mean, why did I get up?”

“Why did you get up?” Eddie repeats, impatience bleeding into his tone. He tugs softly at Richie’s hair, and allows himself a grin as his breath catches. “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Well, I… I mean, it’s morning, Eds. Usually mornings are when I get out of bed,” Richie says, with a short chuckle, but there’s a hesitance in his tone that Eddie doesn’t buy.

“You didn’t seem like you were ready to get up. You were practically still asleep, man.”

He feels the light brush of Richie’s eyelashes against his bare chest again as he blinks, and then he shrugs awkwardly. “Okay. Then I, uh. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and… and there was no reason to be so close to you, so…”

“But you _just_ said you slept better than usual,” Eddie presses.

“I know, but -”

“- Because you were close to me!”

“Look, that doesn’t matter, okay?” Richie bursts. He lifts his head from Eddie’s chest and gives him a smile, but falls away into a troubled look after a moment. “I don’t care how well I slept. It’s not worth it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t say it did. I offered, Rich!” Eddie argues, and Richie’s nose wrinkles as his mouth screws into a grimace.

“You offered to help me drop off. You didn’t offer for – for me to use you as my personal pillow, man! You don’t have to put up with that.”

He moves to shift away again, and Eddie tightens his fingers in Richie’s hair; not enough to hurt, but enough to make him yelp, and freeze in place. His eyes widen as he looks to Eddie, who smiles, suddenly shy as his heart races in his throat.

“I wasn’t just putting up with it,” he murmurs.

He unhands Richie after a moment. Richie shuffles in place, and levers himself upright, until he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Eddie sits up too, shifting until two of them are seated at right-angles and glancing sidelong at each other. Their eyes seem more interested in seeking out anything but the other person. Richie stares at the blankets, his fingers winding and unwinding in them, as Eddie’s eyes dart over the nightstand by the bed.

He wonders where Richie hid the picture of him. He wonders if he’s planning on returning it to its place, when Eddie has fled back to New York. Does he just need the reminder that Eddie didn’t die after all? Or is there more to it than that? He itches to know every one of Richie’s secrets.

“Look,” Richie says suddenly. He takes a deep breath, and clenches his fingers in the blanket. “It was great of you to help me, man. Honestly, what you did for me – it’s the best I’ve slept in months. But I… I really don’t want to take advantage, or make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to pretend, or whatever. Just ‘cause I’m…”

Eddie swallows hard, and forces himself to meet Richie’s eyes. They’re downcast, and they meet his gaze uncertainly.

He summons up a smile, and gently rests his hand on Richie’s knee. There’s a scar there, just beneath his thumb, and he brushes the pad over it to see Richie shiver.

It bothers him, that there is a scar on his body and Eddie doesn’t know the story behind it. He wants to hear how he got it. He wants Richie to tell him the story, with his Voices, and to laugh, or sympathise, or commiserate.

He wants to be able to press a kiss to it, and to feel like he understands how it fits into Richie Tozier.

He wants to know everything about him again.

“Listen to me, okay?” he says, and pauses until Richie nods. “I mean it. I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m not pretending. You being gay could never make me uncomfortable, Richie. You have never, ever made me feel uncomfortable. You never could. I promise.”

“But what about -”

“- Never,” Eddie says again, and he leaves no room for doubt in the certainty of his words. “You have irritated me, and pissed me off beyond belief a million times, but you have never once made me uncomfortable just by being yourself. Okay?”

Richie meets his eyes, his own wide and watery, and after a moment, he produces a shaky smile. “Jeez, okay, Eddie. You little sap.”

“I’m not done,” Eddie says, but his heart is singing with the smile on Richie’s face. He lets himself study it for a moment, before he squeezes his knee with trembling fingers. “I like that you let me try to help you. I _really_ like that it worked. I want… I want to be able to help you more.”

Richie blinks at him, and laughs softly, aiming a sheepish look at the blankets. “Yeah? You want to snuggle more tonight, Spaghetti?” He looks up through his lashes, and his smile becomes something more teasing. “What, did it do something for you, baby? You like how big and strong you felt, cuddling a dude while he cried about his nightmares?”

“I like knowing that you feel better,” Eddie retorts. He tightens his hand on his knee, and takes a deep, trembling breath.

The call of the void. That’s what Stan had called it. He feels it now, stronger than ever.

“And I liked how it felt, waking up with you on top of me like that. I… I really liked it, Rich.”

Richie’s head snaps up. His expression is one of sheer astonishment, uncertainty tugging at his lips and confusion lurking in his eyes. “Wait, what?” he says, and forces out a tight laugh. “What’re you saying, man? Are you still drunk?”

“No, man, just… listen. You remember when we talked about me not wanting to steal your thunder?” Eddie blurts eagerly. He’s not drunk, he’s sure of it. He’s just suddenly, desperately certain of who he is. 

And he knows exactly what he wants.

Richie blinks, apparently thrown by his question. “Uh. Yeah? What -”

“- Did you mean what you said?” Eddie asks. “That if I have something I want to tell people, that I should just do it, even if it might take the spotlight off you?”

“Are you kidding? We’re back to this again?” Richie blinks at him, clearly lost, but he arches his eyebrow and nods firmly. “Yeah. Yeah, man, I meant it. If you have something you need to tell people, then you should do it. _Especially_ if it takes the spotlight off me! Kick me the hell out of the way, man, I don’t fucking care! Don’t you dare hold yourself back for me, okay?”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Richie says, and there is steel in his voice.

Eddie nods. He tightens his hand on Richie’s knee, and takes in a deep breath, filling his lungs until he’s sure they are about to burst. He can feel the void tugging at him as he peers down into it.

Then he closes his eyes, and leaps. “You know how you’re gay?”

“Uh. I mean. Yeah, I’m pretty familiar with the fact, by now.”

“I think I am, too.”

Silence falls.

He opens his eyes hesitantly, and finds Richie gaping at him. His jaw has dropped, and his eyes are wide, and he looks, for a moment, as though Eddie has slapped him.

And then, as Eddie watches uncertainly, a shocked smile spreads across his face. “Well, _fuck_ , Eds, that’s -”

“- And I’ve figured out who the love of my life is.”

If Richie had looked shocked before, it is nothing compared to his reaction to these words. 

The smile drops off his face as though he’s just been kicked in the ribs. His eyes widen further, and his eyebrows disappear into his hairline as they creep up his forehead. A startled breath escapes him in a broken little noise.

And then, suddenly, the expression is gone. 

Richie’s face morphs into a picture of ecstasy; an enormous smile spreads across his lips, and he lets out a whoop of excitement as he squeezes Eddie’s shoulder tightly.

None of it reaches his eyes.

“All _right_! That’s amazing, Eddie!” he beams, and shakes him by the shoulder. “Check you, getting out there! I knew there’d be someone just waiting for you! Who is it? Have you told him? I can’t wait to meet him!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Richie!” Eddie bursts. He stares at Richie, his eyes wide and hopeful as he wills him to get it. “You don’t need to meet him, man! You’re actually pretty fucking familiar with him already!”

“Uh…”

“Richie!” Eddie snaps, half-exasperated, half-pleading. “It’s _you_!”

Richie freezes in place. 

Eddie keeps his eyes on him as his heart pounds rapidly, with his pulse thrumming in his ears. He can almost feel himself falling as Richie stares at him; the void closes in around him, wind whipping at him as he freefalls, and he hopes desperately for a safe landing.

Then the fake cheer melts from Richie’s face, and Eddie’s chest clenches as he yanks his hand from his shoulder as though burned. 

“Eddie,” he whimpers, and Eddie’s stomach falls at the hurt in his voice. “Don’t joke about that, man.”

“What?”

“I know I, I can’t ask you that. I _know_ I can’t, not after everything I’ve ever said to you – but please, man, I can’t take it,” Richie whispers, and Eddie’s heart clenches as he sees anguish shining in Richie’s eyes. “Don’t fucking do that to me. Please?”

“I’m not joking!” Eddie bursts. Richie falls silent, startled by the vehemence in his tone, and Eddie tightens his hand on Richie’s knee desperately. “I’m not, I swear!”

He stares hopefully at him, and takes another breath in.

_I can do this. I can be brave._

“I’m in love with you.”

“You…” Richie’s eyes screw up in confusion, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “What? Eddie -”

“- I love you. I love you!” Eddie laughs, hysterics suddenly bubbling up inside him as Richie watches him in open astonishment. A tear trickles down his cheek, and he reaches up irritably to brush it away with a trembling hand. “I love you, man! Are you deaf as well as a dumbass?”

Richie lets out a startled bark of laughter, and raises his own hand to catch hold of Eddie’s. He holds him hesitantly, his touch barely there, as though he’s not sure it is allowed. “Wait, really?”

“ _Yes_ , really! I love you, asshole! I’m fully, absolutely in love with you!” Eddie breathes shakily, and tangles their fingers together. His own are tight; Richie’s lie loosely beneath his, even as he squeezes desperately at them. 

He aims a pleading look at Richie as he gapes silently at him in return, his confidence wavering in the face of his apparent disbelief. “I’m serious, man, I… I love you. For real.”

“Wait, you’re… you’re _in love_ with me?” Richie’s voice is barely there, but disbelief runs through it, and as Eddie watches, he lets out a bark of startled, astonished laughter. “What in the name of fuck, Eddie!”

Eddie slumps in place. So much for a safe landing.

“Yeah, man, fucking… yeah,” he mumbles, as a dizzying rush of emotion courses through him; shame then panic then regret then – then everything, all at once. His heart feels like it could shatter as Richie stares at him, so he drops his eyes. “I thought – well, I guess it doesn’t fucking matter what I thought, huh? I – I guess I – look, I’m just… Sorry.” 

He tries to pull his fingers back, fighting to settle his breathing despite feeling as though he’s been punched in the gut, but Richie’s fingers tighten in his as he tries to pull his hand free. 

Eddie sighs weakly, and aims a pleading look at him. “Look, fucking… forget I said anything, okay? We - you don’t have to – it’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” Richie echoes. His eyes are wide, and staring, though his lips have begun to quirk at the corners. “It’s _fine_? Are you telling me it’s fine that you fucking love me, Eddie?”

“Look, I don’t -”

“- You want me to just forget that you’re _in love with me_? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I wish I was!” Eddie snaps, and redoubles his efforts to tug his hand free from Richie’s. “But I _wasn’t_ , and obviously you don’t feel the same, so… so are you going to keep being an enormous douchebag, or -”

Suddenly, Richie pulls him closer by the hand. Eddie moves with a yelp, and finds himself steadied by his other hand on his shoulder, keeping him balanced as Richie leans in to press their lips together.

He hesitates for only one stunned moment before he leans his hands on Richie’s thighs and kisses him in return.

Their first kiss is desperate, and frantic. Richie’s hands tighten until he’s clinging to Eddie, and he tilts his head to invite him closer with a groan. Eddie moves with him, and licks at the seam of his lips without thinking. Richie whimpers, and parts his lips, and they pull each other closer urgently. Heat thrums through him, wild and crackling, and even if he wanted to, he could not stop the moan that escapes him when Richie drags him to straddle his lap.

They kiss until Eddie’s lungs are about to burst, until Eddie’s hands are tangled in Richie’s hair and Richie’s are palming the bare skin of his back with his fingernails digging in desperately. Eddie is left panting when they pull apart, separated by mere inches and both grinning in growing delight. 

“Yes,” Richie says nonsensically, and Eddie frowns.

“Yes? What do you mean, yes?”

“Yes, I’m going to keep being an enormous douchebag,” he grins. He links his hands tightly with Eddie’s again, and he laughs, long and loud. “As much as I possibly can!”

“Man, fuck you!” Eddie laughs in return, trying to sound irritated, but it’s a losing battle, and he knows it. His heart is pounding, and his soul is soaring as he whirls through the void, and he feels as though he may never stop smiling again. “I don’t have to put up with -” 

“- I love you too,” Richie blurts, and Eddie falls silent.

Richie stares at him, his eyes shining with hope. “That’s why I’m so – so fucking out of it. I can’t – you don’t know how often I’ve – like, I don’t usually let myself think about this, like, this _scenario_ we have right here, right? Because – because it sucks such huge balls when I have to remind myself that it’s just a fucking daydream. And then I wake up one day you just… you fucking tell me you love me? Like it’s that easy?”

“It is,” Eddie says softly. He lets a smile spread across his face, because stopping it feels impossible right now. “It… it is, man. I love you. I mean it.”

“I love you too,” Richie breathes. He looks astonished, and briefly terrified for just a moment, before he laughs. His head falls back and his eyes squint closed and Eddie does not resist the temptation to trail his fingers down the line of his throat. He beams when Richie aims a soft, warm look at him. “Man, I’ve loved you since – since I met you, y’know? And I never fucked stopped. Not even when I forgot you. There’s never been anybody but you, Eddie.”

Eddie looks back at him, letting himself watch Richie openly. 

He takes in the lines at his eyes, crinkled with happiness as he grins in return, and he watches the trembling curve of his smile. He lets himself thumb at the corner of it, because he can, and he delights in the small kiss Richie presses to its pad. He watches the way his eyes shine and glisten as he gazes at Eddie in something close to awe.

Eddie lets out a sigh, as mingled relief and happiness flood him, and schools his face into a picture of innocence as he asks, “Not even when you were kissing Stan?”

“Oh my _god!_ ” Richie yells, and he collapses back onto the bed as he laughs helplessly. 

Eddie follows him, curling up beside him and laughing as Richie giggles, high and breathless. “You’re such a little shit, Kaspbrak! A tiny, terrible turd!”

“I need to know!” Eddie laughs in return. “I deserve to know the truth!”

“Oh, do you really? Despite the aforementioned turd-being? Well, jeez, let me put this to you,” Richie chuckles, and rolls onto his side to smirk wickedly at Eddie. “Stan didn’t name any names, but who the fuck do you think I was whining about wanting to kiss before Stan fucking planted one on me? Who do you think got me so whiny that Stan smooched me just to make me shut the fuck up?”

Eddie’s eyes widen as his heart flutters excitedly in his chest. “No way, man!”

“Fucking _yes_ way!” He pats at Eddie’s face and cups his cheek, as his eyebrows waggle mischievously. “Who do you think I desperately wanted to be good at kissing _for_?”

“No!” Eddie laughs, his voice high and giddy as he shrieks in Richie’s lap. “You’re making it up!”

“I’m not!”

“Wait, so Stan _knew_? Even back then?”

“He’s always fucking known!” Richie bursts, and suddenly Eddie can picture a younger Stanley so easily, endlessly rolling his eyes and appealing to the heavens for patience in the face of Richie’s hysterics. “I’m telling you, man! It’s impossible to keep a secret from Stanley! He’s psychic! He knows everything!”

He settles, and looks shyly at Eddie, before he adds, “And he’s a fucking saint for listening to me whine about how head-over-goddamn-heels I am for you. Then _and_ now.”

“Jeez, Rich,” Eddie murmurs, blinking in astonishment. “That’s…”

“A lot?” Richie asks hesitantly, and Eddie surges in to press another kiss to his lips. It is softer, and more tender than the last, and it feels just as wonderful.

“Flattering,” he corrects softly as he pulls away, and grins at the pink staining Richie’s cheeks. “And… and it’s not like I didn’t want you too, y’know? I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t have a clue about myself, but… It’s not like I ever shared the hammock with anyone else, y’know?” he jokes lightly, and relishes the long peal of laughter that Richie lets out.

“Me either, man! Not even Stanley.”

“Yeah, as much as I love Stan, that was _our_ thing,” Eddie grins. He takes Richie’s hand again and gives it a squeeze, then sighs, long and low. “Fuck, he’s going to be such a smug shit when he finds out about this, isn’t he?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course he is. He’s a smug shit about everything,” Richie chuckles. He grins at Eddie, and leans close to press another kiss to his lips, quick and light and perfect. He grins, and shrugs sheepishly. “But he’s earned this one, I guess.”

They lie together for a while, hands entwined and curling close together to kiss lazily. 

There is so much to consider; so much potential strife that still lies ahead of them. They live thousands of miles apart, for a start, and neither have much practical experience of successful relationships, and they’re both still facing down the realities of life as openly gay men.

But right now, it feels to Eddie as though time has stopped still. He feels as though they are caught in a moment, finally united after some dark power conspired to keep them apart, and that whatever they have lost as a result pales in comparison to the joy that he is sure lies ahead of them. 

He kisses Richie like he has never kissed anybody before; with love, and hope, and not a single moment of uncertainty.

Later, they will reluctantly lever themselves out of bed, startled into getting up by an impatient knock on their door. They’ll fight over the shower, and bicker about what to have for breakfast, and Richie will go out for more doughnuts, just because Eddie wants them.

They’ll go to see the Hollywood sign for Ben, and they’ll shyly hold hands in the group selfie they take.

But for now, they just lie together, their fingers tangled and their legs entwined. And together, they answer the call of the void.

And together, they land safely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't say this when I initially posted it, but [this fic is a sequel of sorts to all of this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906400/chapters/52286695)! It's set during Richie and Eddie's first Christmas together, so naturally there's a time skip, in which Richie has moved to New York. Perhaps one day I'll write a fic bridging the gap, but until then, if you want more, here it is! (It's way naughtier, like, rated explicit, so, uh, y'know, only click if that is appropriate and also your kind of thing.)
> 
> Thank you again!


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